Diplomatic Immunity

Lois McMaster Bujold

CHAPTER ONE
In the image above the vid plate, the sperm writhed in elegant, sinuous curves. Its
wriggling grew more energetic as the invisible grip of the medical micro-tractor
grasped it and guided it to its target, the pearl-like egg: round, lustrous, rich with
promise.
Once more, dear boy, into the breach - for England, Harry, and Saint George! Miles
murmured encouragingly. Or at least, for Barrayar, me, and maybe Grandfather Piotr.
Ha! With a last twitch, the sperm vanished within its destined paradise.
Miles, are you looking at those baby pictures again? came Ekaterin's voice, amused,
as she emerged from their cabin's sybaritic bathroom. She finished winding up her dark
hair on the back of her head, secured it, and leaned over his shoulder as he sat in the
station chair. Is that Aral Alexander, or Helen Natalia?
Well, Aral Alexander in the making.
Ah, admiring your sperm again. I see.
And your excellent egg, my lady. He glanced up at his wife, glorious in a heavy red
silk tunic that he'd bought her on Earth, and grinned. The warm clean scent of her skin
tickled his nostrils, and he inhaled happily. Were they not a handsome set of gametes?
While they lasted, anyway.
Yes, and they made beautiful blastocysts. You know, it's a good thing we took this
trip. I swear you'd be in there trying to lift the replicator lids to peek, or shaking
the poor little things up like Winterfair presents to see how they rattled.
Well, it's all new to me.
Your mother told me last Winterfair that as soon as the embryos were safely
implanted you'd be acting like you'd invented reproduction. And to think I imagined she
was exaggerating!
He captured her hand and breathed a kiss into its palm. This, from the lady who sat
in the nursery next to the replicator rack all spring to study? Whose assignments all
suddenly seemed to take twice as long to complete?
Which, of course, had nothing to do with her lord popping in twice an hour to ask
how she was going on? The hand, released, traced his chin in a very flattering
fashion. Miles considered proposing that they forgo the rather dull luncheon company in
the ship's passenger lounge, order in room service, get undressed again, and go back to
bed for the rest of the watch. Ekaterin didn't seem to regard anything about their
journey as boring, though.
This galactic honeymoon was belated, but perhaps better so, Miles thought. Their
marriage had had an awkward enough commencement; it was as well that their settling-in
had included a quiet period of domestic routine. But in retrospect, the first
anniversary of that memorable, difficult, mid-winter wedding had seemed to arrive in
about fifteen subjective minutes.
They had long agreed they would celebrate the date by starting the children in their
uterine replicators. The debate had never been about when, just how many. He still
thought his suggestion of doing them all at once had an admirable efficiency. He'd
never been serious about twelve; he'd just figured to start with that proposition, and
fall back to six. His mother, his aunt, and what seemed every other female of his
acquaintance had all mobilized to explain to him that he was insane, but Ekaterin had
merely smiled. They'd settled on two, to begin with, Aral Alexander and Helen Natalia.
A double portion of wonder, terror, and delight.
At the edge of the vid recording, Baby's First Cell Division was interrupted by a red
blinking message light. Miles frowned faintly. They were three jumps out from Solar
space, in the deep interstellar on a sub-light-speed run between wormholes expected to
take four full days. En route to Tau Ceti, where they would make orbital transfer to a
ship bound for Escobar, and there to yet another that would thread the jump route past
Sergyar and Komarr to home. He wasn't exactly expecting any vid calls here. Receive,
he intoned.
Aral Alexander in potentia vanished, to be replaced by the head and shoulders of the
Tau Cetan passenger liner's captain. Miles and Ekaterin had dined at his table some two
or three times on this leg of their tour. The man favored Miles with a tense smile and
nod. Lord Vorkosigan.
Yes, Captain? What can I do for you?
A ship identifying itself as a Barrayaran Imperial courier has hailed us and is
requesting permission to match velocities and lock on. Apparently, they have an urgent
message for you.
Miles's brows rose, and his stomach sank. This was not, in his experience, the way
the Imperium delivered good news. On his shoulder, Ekaterin's hand tightened.
Certainly, Captain. Put them through.
The captain's dark Tau Cetan features vanished, to be replaced after a moment by a
man in Barrayaran Imperial undress greens with lieutenant's tabs and Sector IV pins on
his collar. Visions surged through Miles's mind of the Emperor assassinated, Vorkosigan
House burned to the ground with the replicators inside, or, even more hideously likely,
his father suffering a fatal stroke - he dreaded the day some stiff-faced messenger
would begin by addressing him, Count Vorkosigan, sir?
The lieutenant saluted him. Lord Auditor Vorkosigan? I'm Lieutenant Smolyani of the
courier ship Kestrel. I have a message to hand-deliver to you, recorded under the
Emperor's personal seal, after which I am ordered to take you aboard.
We're not at war, are we? Nobody's died?
Lieutenant Smolyani ducked his head. Not so far as I've heard, sir. Miles's heart
rate eased; behind him, Ekaterin let out her breath. The lieutenant went on, But,
apparently, a Komarran trade fleet has been impounded at some place called Graf
Station, Union of Free Habitats. It's listed as an independent system, out near the
edge of Sector V. My clear-code flight orders are to take you there with all safe
speed, and to wait on your convenience thereafter. He smiled a bit grimly. I hope
it's not a war, sir, because they only seem to be sending us.
Impounded? Not quarantined?
I gather it's some sort of legal entanglement, sir.
I smell diplomacy. Miles grimaced. Well, no doubt the sealed message will make it
more plain. Bring it to me, and I'll take a look while we get packed up.
Yes, sir. The Kestrel will be locking on in just a few minutes.
Very good, Lieutenant. Miles cut the com.
We? said Ekaterin in a quiet tone.
Miles hesitated. Not a quarantine, the lieutenant had said. Not, apparently, a
shooting war either. Or not yet, anyway. On the other hand, he couldn't imagine Emperor
Gregor interrupting his long-delayed honeymoon for something trivial. I'd better see
what Gregor has to say, first.
She dropped a kiss on the top of his head, and said simply, Right.
Miles raised his personal wrist com to his lips and murmured, Armsman Roic - on
duty, to my cabin, now.
* * *
The data disk with the Imperial Seal upon it that the lieutenant handed to Miles a
short time later was marked Personal, not Secret. Miles sent Roic, his bodyguard-cum-
batman, and Smolyani off to sort and stow luggage, but motioned Ekaterin to stay. He
slipped the disk into the secured player that the lieutenant had also brought, set it
on the cabin's bedside table, and keyed it to life. He sat back on the edge of the bed
beside her, conscious of the warmth and solidity of her body. For the sake of her
worried eyes, he took her hand in a reassuring grip.
Emperor Gregor Vorbarra's familiar features appeared, lean, dark, reserved. Miles
read profound irritation in the subtle tightening of his lips.
I'm sorry to interrupt your honeymoon, Miles, Gregor began. But if this has caught
up with you, you haven't changed your itinerary. So you're on your way home now in any
case.
Not too sorry, then.
It's my good luck and your bad that you happen to be the man physically closest to
this mess. Briefly, one of our Komarr-based trade fleets put in at a deep-space
facility out near Sector V, for resupply and cargo transfer. One - or more, the reports
are unclear - of the officers from its Barrayaran military escort either deserted, or
was kidnapped. Or was murdered - the reports are unclear about that, too. The patrol
the fleet commander sent to retrieve him ran into trouble with the locals. Shots - I
phrase this advisedly - shots were fired, equipment and structures were damaged, people
on both sides were apparently seriously injured. No other deaths reported yet, but that
may have changed by the time you get this, God help us.
The problem - or one of them, anyway - is that we're getting a significantly
different version of the chain of events from the local ImpSec observer on the Graf
Station side of the conflict than we're getting from our fleet commander. Yet more
Barrayaran personnel are now reported either held hostage, or arrested, depending on
which version one is to believe. Charges filed, fines and expenses mounting, and the
local response has been to lock down all ships currently in dock until the muddle is
resolved to their satisfaction. The Komarran cargomasters are now screaming back to us
over the heads of their Barrayaran escort, with yet a third spin on events. For your,
ah, delectation, all the original reports we've received so far from all the viewpoints
are appended to this message. Enjoy. Gregor grimaced in a way that made Miles twitch.
Just to add to the delicacy of the problem, the fleet in question is about fifty
percent Toscane-owned. Gregor's new wife, Empress Laisa, was a Toscane heiress and a
Komarran by birth, a political marriage of enormous importance to the peace of the
fragile union of planets that was the Imperium. The problem of how to satisfy my in-
laws while simultaneously presenting the appearance of Imperial evenhandedness to all
their Komarran commercial rivals - I leave to your ingenuity. Gregor's thin smile said
it all.
You know the drill. I request and require you, as my Voice, to get yourself to Graf
Station with all safe speed and sort out the situation before it deteriorates further.
Pry all my subjects out of the hands of the locals and get the fleet back on its way.
Without starting a war, if you please, or breaking my Imperial budget.
And, critically, find out who's lying. If it's the ImpSec observer, that's a problem
to bounce to their chain of command. If it's the fleet commander - who is Admiral Eugin
Vorpatril, by the way - it becomes... very much my problem.
Or rather, very much the problem of Gregor's proxy, his Emperor's Voice, his Imperial
Auditor. Namely Miles. Miles considered the interesting pitfalls inherent in
attempting, without backup, far from home, to arrest the ranking military officer out
of the middle of his long-standing and possibly personally loyal command. A Vorpatril,
too, scion of a Barrayaran aristocratic clan of far-flung and important political
connections within the Council of Counts. Miles's own aunt and cousin were Vorpatrils.
Oh, thank you, Gregor.
The Emperor continued, In matters rather closer to Barrayar, something has stirred
up the Cetagandans around Rho Ceta. No need to go into the peculiar details here, but I
would appreciate it if you would settle this impoundment crisis as swiftly and
efficiently as you can. If the Rho Cetan business becomes any more peculiar, I'll want
you safely home. The communications lag between Barrayar and Sector V is going to be
too long to for me to breathe over your shoulder, but some occasional status or
progress reports from you would be a nice touch, if you don't mind. Gregor's voice did
not change to convey irony. It didn't need to. Miles snorted. Good luck, Gregor
concluded. The image on the viewer returned to a mute display of the Imperial Seal.
Miles reached forward and keyed it off. The detailed reports, he could study once he
was en route.
He? Or we?
He glanced up at Ekaterin's pale profile; she turned her serious blue eyes toward
him. He asked, Do you want to go with me, or continue on home?
Can I go with you? she asked doubtfully.
Of course you can! The only question is, would you like to?
Her dark brows rose. Not the only question, surely. Do you think I'd be of any use,
or would I just be a distraction from your work?
There's official use, and there's unofficial use. Don't bet that the first is more
important than the second. You know the way people talk to you to try to get oblique
messages to me?
Oh, yes. Her lips twisted in distaste.
Well, yes, I realize it's tedious, but you're very good at sorting them out, you
know. Not to mention the information to be obtained just from studying the kinds of
lies people tell. And, ah - not-lies. There may well be people who will talk to you who
won't talk to me, for one reason or another.
She conceded the truth of this with a little wave of her free hand.
And... it would be a real relief for me to have someone along I can talk to freely.
Her smile tilted a little at this. Talk, or vent?
I - hem! - suspect this one is going to entail quite a lot of venting, yes. D'you
think you can stand it? It could get pretty thick. Not to mention boring.
You know, you keep claiming your job is boring, Miles, but your eyes have gone all
bright.
He cleared his throat and shrugged unrepentantly.
Her amusement faded, and her brows drew down. How long do you think this sorting out
will take?
He considered the calculation she had doubtless just made. It would be six more
weeks, give or take a few days, to the scheduled births. Their original travel plan
would have put them back at Vorkosigan House a comfortable month early. Sector V was in
the opposite direction from their present location to Barrayar, insofar as the network
of jump points people navigated to get from here to there could be said to have a
direction. Several days to get from here to Graf Station, plus an extra two weeks of
travel at least to get home from there, even in the fastest of fast couriers. If I can
settle things in less than two weeks, we can both get home on time.
She breathed a short laugh. For all that I try to be all modern and galactic, that
feels so strange. All sorts of men don't make it home for the births of their children.
But My mother was out of town on the day I was born, so she missed it, just seems...
seems like a more profound complaint, somehow.
If it runs over, I suppose I could send you home on your own, with a suitable
escort. But I want to be there, too. He hesitated. It's my first time, dammit, of
course it's making me crazy, was a statement of the obvious that he managed to stop on
his lips. Her first marriage had left her riddled with sensitive scars, none of them
physical, and this topic trod near several of them. Rephrase, O Diplomat. Does it...
make it any easier, that it's the second time, for you?
Her expression grew introspective. Nikki was a body birth; of course everything was
harder. The replicators take away so many risks - our children could get all their
genetic mistakes corrected, they won't be subject to damage from a bad birth - I know
replicator gestation is better, more responsible, in every way. It's not as though they
are being shortchanged. And yet...
He raised her hand and touched her knuckles to his lips. You're not shortchanging
me, I promise you.
Miles's own mother was adamantly in favor of the use of replicators, with cause. He
was reconciled now, at age thirty-odd, with the physical damage he had taken in her
womb from the soltoxin attack. Only his emergency transfer to a replicator had saved
his life. The teratogenic military poison had left him stunted and brittle-boned, but a
childhood's agony of medical treatments had brought him to nearly full function, if
not, alas, full height. Most of his bones had been replaced piecemeal with synthetics
thereafter, emphasis on the pieces. The rest of the damage, he conceded, was all his
own doing. That he was still alive seemed less a miracle than that he had won
Ekaterin's heart. Their children would not suffer such traumas.
He added, And if you think you're having it too luxuriously easy now to feel
properly virtuous, why, just wait till they get out of those replicators.
She laughed. Very good point!
Well. He sighed. I'd intended this trip to show you the glories of the galaxy, in
the most elegant and refined society. It appears I'm heading instead to what I suspect
is the armpit of Sector V, and the company of a bunch of squabbling, frantic merchants,
irate bureaucrats, and paranoid militarists. Life is full of surprises. Come with me,
my love? For my sanity's sake?
Her eyes narrowed in amusement. How can I resist such an invitation? Of course I
will. She sobered. Would it violate security for me to send a message to Nikki
telling him we'll be late?
Not at all. Send it from the Kestrel, though. It'll get through faster.
She nodded. I've never been away from him so long before. I wonder if he's been
lonely?
Nikki had been left, on Ekaterin's side of the family, with four uncles and a great-
uncle plus matching aunts, a herd of cousins, a small army of friends, and his
Grandmother Vorsoisson. On Miles's side were Vorkosigan House's extensive staff and
their extensive families, with Uncle Ivan and Uncle Mark and the whole Koudelka clan
for backup. Impending were his doting Vorkosigan step-grandparents, who had planned to
arrive after Miles and Ekaterin for the birthday bash, but who now might beat them
home. Ekaterin might have to travel ahead to Barrayar, if he couldn't cut through this
mess in a timely fashion, but by no rational definition of the word, alone.
I don't see how, said Miles honestly. I expect you miss him more than he misses
us. Or he'd have managed more than that one monosyllabic note that didn't catch up with
us till Earth. Eleven-year-old boys can be pretty self-centered. I'm sure I was.
Her brows rose. Oh? And how many notes have you sent to your mother in the past two
months?
It's a honeymoon trip. Nobody expects you to... Anyway, she's always gotten to see
the reports from my security.
The brows stayed up. He added prudently, I'll drop her a message from the Kestrel
too.
He was rewarded with a League of Mothers smile. Come to think of it, perhaps he would
include his father in the address as well, not that his parents didn't share his
missives. And complain coequally about their rarity.
* * *
An hour of mild chaos completed their transfer to the Barrayaran Imperial courier
ship. Fast couriers gained most of their speed by trading off carrying capacity. Miles
was forced to divest all but their most essential luggage. The considerable remainder,
along with a startling volume of souvenirs, would continue the journey back to Barrayar
with most of their little entourage: Ekaterin's personal maid, Miss Pym, and, to
Miles's greater regret, both of Roic's relief armsmen. It occurred to him belatedly, as
he and Ekaterin fitted themselves into their new shared cabin, that he ought to have
mentioned how cramped their quarters would be. He'd traveled on similar vessels so
often during his own years in ImpSec, he took their limitations for granted - one of
the few aspects of his former career where his undersized body had worked to his
advantage.
So while he did spend the remainder of the day in bed with his wife after all, it was
primarily due to the absence of other seating. They folded back the upper bunk for head
space and sat up on opposite ends, Ekaterin to read quietly from a hand viewer, Miles
to plunge into Gregor's promised Pandora's box of reports from the diplomatic front.
He wasn't five minutes into this study before he uttered a Ha!
Ekaterin indicated her willingness to be interrupted by looking up at him with a
reciprocal Hm?
I just figured out why Graf Station sounded familiar. We're headed for Quaddiespace,
by God.
Quaddiespace? Is that someplace you've been before?
Not personally, no. This was going to take more politic preparation than he'd
anticipated. Although I actually met a quaddie once. The quaddies are a race of
bioengineered humans developed, oh, two or three hundred years ago. Before Barrayar was
rediscovered. They were supposed to be permanent free fall dwellers. Whatever their
creators' original plan for them was, it fell through when the new grav technologies
came in, and they ended up as sort of economic refugees. After assorted travels and
adventures, they finally settled as a group in what was at the time the far end of the
wormhole Nexus. They were wary of other people by then, so they deliberately picked a
system with no habitable planets, but with considerable asteroid and cometary
resources. Planning to keep themselves to themselves, I guess. Of course, the explored
Nexus has grown around them since then, so now they get some foreign exchange by
servicing ships and providing transfer facilities. Which explains why our fleet came to
be docked there, although not what happened afterwards. The, ah... He hesitated. The
bioengineering included a lot of metabolic changes, but the most spectacular alteration
was, they have a second set of arms where their legs should be. Which is really, um,
handy in free fall. So to speak. I've often wished I'd had a couple of extra hands,
when I was operating in vacuum.
He passed the viewer across and displayed the shot of a quaddie, dressed in bright
yellow shorts and a singlet, handing himself along a gravity-less corridor with the
speed and agility of a monkey navigating through treetops.
Oh, gulped Ekaterin, then quickly regained control of her features. How, uh...
interesting. After a moment she added, It does look quite practical, for their
environment.
Miles relaxed a trifle. Whatever her buried Barrayaran reflexes were regarding
visible mutations, they would be trumped by her iron grip on good manners.
The same, unfortunately, did not appear to be true of their fellow members of the
Imperium now stranded in the quaddies' system. The difference between deleterious
mutation and benign or advantageous modification was not readily grasped by Barrayarans
from the backcountry. Given that one officer referred to them as horrible spider
mutants right in his report, it was clear that Miles could add racial tensions to the
mix of complications they were now racing toward.
You get used to them pretty quickly, he reassured her.
Where did you meet one, if they keep to themselves?
Um... Some quick internal editing, here... It was on an ImpSec mission. I can't
talk about it. But she was a musician, of all things. Played the hammer dulcimer with
all four arms. His attempt to mime this remarkable sight resulted in his banging his
elbow painfully on the cabin wall. Her name was Nicol. You would have liked her. We
got her out of a tight spot. I wonder if she ever made it home? He rubbed his elbow
and added hopefully, I'll bet the quaddies' free fall gardening techniques would
interest you.
Ekaterin brightened. Yes, indeed.
Miles returned to his reports with the uncomfortable certainty that this was not
going to be a good task to plunge into underprepared. He mentally added a review of
quaddie history to his list of studies for the next few days.
CHAPTER TWO
Is my collar straight?
Ekaterin's cool fingers made businesslike work upon the back of Miles's neck; he
concealed the shiver down his spine. Now it is, she said.
Clothes make the Auditor, he muttered. The little cabin lacked such amenities as a
full-length mirror; he had to use his wife's eyes instead. This did not seem a
disadvantage. She stepped back as far as she could, a half-pace to the bulkhead, and
looked him up and down to check the effect of his Vorkosigan House uniform: brown tunic
with his family crest in silver thread upon the high collar, silver-embroidered cuffs,
brown trousers with silver side piping, tall brown riding boots. The Vor class had been
cavalry soldiers, in their heyday. No horse within God knew how many light-years now,
that was certain.
He touched his wrist com, mate in function to the one she wore, though hers was made
Vor-lady-like with a decorative silver bracelet. I'll give you a heads-up when I'm
ready to come back and change. He nodded toward the plain gray suit she'd already laid
out on the bunk. A uniform for the military-minded, civvies for the civilians. And let
the weight of Barrayaran history, eleven generations of Counts Vorkosigan at his back,
make up for his lack of height, his faintly hunched stance. His less visible defects,
he didn't need to mention.
What should I wear?
Since you'll have to play the whole entourage, something effective. He smiled
crookedly. That red silk thing ought to be distractingly civilian enough for our
Stationer hosts.
Only the male half, love, she pointed out. Suppose their security chief is a
female quaddie? Are quaddies even attracted to downsiders?
One was, apparently, he sighed. Hence this mess.... Parts of Graf Station are
null-gee, so you'll likely want trousers or leggings instead of Barrayaran-style
skirts. Something you can move in.
Oh. Yes, I see.
A knock sounded at the cabin door, and Armsman Roic's diffident voice, My lord?
On my way, Roic. Miles and Ekaterin exchanged places - finding himself at her chest
height, he stole a pleasantly resilient hug in passing - and he exited to the courier
ship's narrow corridor.
Roic wore a slightly plainer version of Miles's Vorkosigan House uniform, as befitted
his liege-sworn armsman's status. Do you want me to pack up your things now for
transfer to the Barrayaran flagship, m'lord? he asked.
No. We're going to stay aboard the courier.
Roic almost managed to conceal his wince. He was a young man of imposing height and
intimidating breadth of shoulder, and had described his bunk above the courier ship's
engineer as Sort of like sleeping in a coffin, m'lord, except for the snoring.
Miles added, I don't care to hand off control of my movements, not to mention my air
supply, to either side in this squabble just yet. The flagship's bunks aren't much
bigger anyway, I assure you, Armsman.
Roic smiled ruefully, and shrugged. I'm afraid you should've brought Jankowski,
sir.
What, because he's shorter?
No, m'lord! Roic looked faintly indignant. Because he's a real veteran.
A Count of Barrayar was limited by law to a bodyguard of a score of sworn men; the
Vorkosigans had by tradition recruited most of their armsmen from retiring twenty-year
veterans of the Imperial Service. By political need, in the last decades they'd mostly
been former ImpSec men. They were a keen but graying bunch. Roic was an interesting new
exception.
When did that become a concern? Miles's father's cadre of armsmen treated Roic as a
junior because he was, but if they were treating him as a second-class citizen...
Eh... Roic waved somewhat inarticulately around the courier ship, by which Miles
construed that the problem lay in more recent encounters.
Miles, about to lead off down the short corridor, instead leaned against the wall and
folded his arms. Look, Roic - there's scarcely a man in the Imperial Service your age
or younger who's faced as much live fire in the Emperor's employ as you have in the
Hassadar Municipal Guard. Don't let the damned green uniforms spook you. It's empty
swagger. Half of 'em would fall over in a faint if they were asked to take down someone
like that murderous lunatic who shot up Hassadar Square.
I was already halfway across the plaza, m'lord. It would've been like swimming
halfway across a river, deciding you couldn't make it, and turning around to swim back.
It was safer to jump him than to turn and run. He'd 'a had the same amount of time to
take aim at me either way.
But not the time to take out another dozen or so bystanders. Auto-needler's a filthy
weapon. Miles brooded briefly.
That it is, m'lord.
For all his height, Roic tended to shyness when he felt himself to be socially
outclassed, which unfortunately seemed to be much of the time in the Vorkosigans'
service. Since the shyness showed on his surface mainly as a sort of dull stolidity, it
tended to get overlooked.
You're a Vorkosigan armsman, said Miles firmly. The ghost of General Piotr is
woven into that brown and silver. They'll be spooked by you, I promise you.
Roic's brief smile conveyed more gratitude than conviction. Wish I could've met your
grandfather, m'lord. From all the tales they told of him back in the District, he was
quite something. My great-grandfather served with him in the mountains during the
Cetagandan Occupation, m'mother says.
Ah! Did she have any good stories about him?
Roic shrugged. He died of t' radiation after Vorkosigan Vashnoi was destroyed.
M'grandmother would never talk about him much, so I don't know.
Pity.
Lieutenant Smolyani poked his head around the corner. We're locked on to the Prince
Xav now, Lord Auditor Vorkosigan. Transfer tube's sealed and they're ready for you to
board.
Very good, Lieutenant.
Miles followed Roic, who had to duck his head through the oval doorway, into the
courier's cramped personnel hatch bay. Smolyani took up station by the hatch controls.
The control pad twinkled and beeped; the door slid open onto the airlock and the flex
tube, beyond it. Miles nodded to Roic, who took a visible breath and swung himself
through. Smolyani braced to a salute; Miles returned him an acknowledging nod and a
Thank you, Lieutenant, and followed Roic.
A meter of stomach-lifting zero-gee in the flex tube ended at a similar hatchway.
Miles grasped the handgrips and swung himself through and smoothly to his feet in the
open airlock. He stepped from it into a very much more spacious hatch bay. On his left,
Roic loomed formally, awaiting him. The flagship's door slid closed behind him.
Before him, three green-uniformed men and a civilian stood stiffly to attention. Not
one of them changed expression at Miles's un-Barrayaran physique. Presumably Vorpatril,
whom Miles barely recalled from a few passing encounters in Vorbarr Sultana's capital
scene, remembered him more vividly, and had prudently briefed his staff on the mutoid
appearance of Emperor Gregor's shortest, not to mention youngest and newest, Voice.
Admiral Eugin Vorpatril was of middle height, stocky, white-haired, and grim. He
stepped forward and gave Miles a crisp and proper salute. My Lord Auditor. Welcome
aboard the Prince Xav.
Thank you, Admiral. He did not add Happy to be here; no one in this group could be
happy to see him, under the circumstances.
Vorpatril continued, May I introduce my Fleet Security commander, Captain Brun.
The lean, tense man, possibly even grimmer than his admiral, nodded curtly. Brun had
been in operational charge of the ill-fated patrol whose hair-trigger exploits had
blown the situation from minor legal brangle to major diplomatic incident. No, not
happy at all.
Senior Cargomaster Molino of the Komarran fleet consortium.
Molino too was middle-aged, and quite as dyspeptic-looking as the Barrayarans, though
dressed in neat dark Komarran-style tunic and trousers. A senior cargomaster was the
ranking executive and financial officer of the limited-term corporate entity that was a
commercial convoy, and as such bore most of the responsibilities of a fleet admiral
with a fraction of the powers. He also had the unenviable task of being the designated
interface between a potentially very disparate bunch of commercial interests, and their
Barrayaran military protectors, which was usually enough to account for dyspepsia even
without a crisis. He murmured a polite, My Lord Vorkosigan.
Vorpatril's tone took on a slightly gritty quality. My fleet legal officer, Ensign
Deslaurier.
Tall Deslaurier, pale and wan beneath a lingering touch of adolescent acne, managed a
nod.
Miles blinked in surprise. When, under his old covert ops identity, he had run a
supposedly independent mercenary fleet for ImpSec's galactic operations, Fleet Legal
had been a major department; just negotiating the peaceful passage of armed ships
through all the varied local space legal jurisdictions had been a full-time job of
nightmarish complexity. Ensign. Miles returned the nod, and chose his wording
carefully. You, ah... would seem to have a considerable responsibility, for your rank
and age.
Deslaurier cleared his throat, and said in a nearly inaudible voice, Our department
chief was sent home earlier in the voyage, my Lord Auditor. Compassionate leave. His
mother'd died.
I think I'm getting the drift of this already. This your first galactic voyage, by
chance?
Yes, my lord.
Vorpatril put in, possibly mercifully, I and my staff are entirely at your disposal,
my Lord Auditor, and are ready with our reports as you requested. Would you care to
follow me to our briefing room?
Yes, thank you, Admiral.
Some shuffling and ducking through the corridors brought the party to a standard
military briefing room: bolted-down holovid-equipped table and station chairs, friction
matting underfoot harboring the faint musty odor of a sealed and gloomy chamber that
never enjoyed sunlight or fresh air. The place smelled military. Miles suppressed the
urge to take a long, nostalgic inhalation, for old times' sake. At his hand signal,
Roic took up an impassive guard's stance just inside the door. The rest waited for him
to seat himself, then disposed themselves around the table, Vorpatril on his left,
Deslaurier as far away as possible.
Vorpatril, displaying a clear understanding of the etiquette of the situation, or at
least some sense of self-preservation, began, So. How may we serve you, my Lord
Auditor?
Miles tented his hands on the table. I am an Auditor; my first task is to listen. If
you please, Admiral Vorpatril, describe for me the course of events from your point of
view. How did you arrive at this impasse?
From my point of view? Vorpatril grimaced. It started out seeming no more than the
usual one damned thing after another. We were supposed to be in dock here at Graf
Station for five days, for contracted cargo and passenger transfers. Since there was no
reason at that time to think that the quaddies were hostile, I granted as many station
leaves as possible, which is standard procedure.
Miles nodded. The purposes of Barrayaran military escorts for Komarran ships ranged
from overt to subtle to never-spoken. Overtly, escorts rode along to repel hijackers
from the cargo vessels and supply the military part of the fleet with maneuvering
experience scarcely less valuable than war games. More subtly, the ventures provided
opportunity for all sorts of intelligence gathering - economic, political, and social,
as well as military. And it provided cadres of young provincial Barrayaran men, future
officers and future civilians, with seasoning contact with the wider galactic culture.
On the never-spoken side were the lingering tensions between Barrayarans and Komarrans,
legacy of the, in Miles's view, fully justified conquest of the latter by the former a
generation ago. It was the Emperor's express policy to move from a stance of occupation
to one of full political and social assimilation between the two planets. That process
was proving slow and rocky.
Vorpatril continued, The Toscane Corporation's ship Idris put into dock for jump
drive adjustments, and ran into unexpected complications when they pulled things apart.
Repaired parts failed to pass calibration tests when reinstalled and were sent back to
the Station shops for refabrication. Five days became ten, while that bickering was
going back and forth. Then Lieutenant Solian turned up missing.
Do I understand correctly that the lieutenant was the Barrayaran security liaison
officer aboard the Idris? Miles said. Fleet beat cop, charged with maintaining peace
and order among crew and passengers, keeping an eye out for any illegal or threatening
activities or suspicious persons - not a few historic hijackings were inside jobs - and
being first line of defense in counterintelligence. More quietly, keeping an ear out
for potential disaffection among the Emperor's Komarran subjects. Obliged to render all
possible assistance to the ship in physical emergencies, coordinating evacuation or
rescue with the military escort. Liaison officer was a job that could shift from
yawningly boring to lethally demanding in an eyeblink.
Captain Brun spoke for the first time. Yes, my lord.
Miles turned to him. One of your people, was he? How would you describe Lieutenant
Solian?
He was newly assigned, Brun answered, then hesitated. I did not have a close
personal acquaintance with him, but all his prior personnel evaluations gave him high
marks.
Miles glanced at the cargomaster. Did you know him, sir?
We met a few times, said Molino. I mostly stayed aboard the Rudra, but my
impression of him was that he was friendly and competent. He seemed to get along well
with crew and passengers. Quite the walking advertisement for assimilation.
Excuse me?
Vorpatril cleared his throat. Solian was Komarran, my lord.
Ah. Argh. The reports hadn't mentioned this wrinkle. Komarrans were but lately
permitted admittance into the Barrayaran Imperial Service; the first generation of such
officers was handpicked, and on their marks to prove their loyalty and competence. The
Emperor's pets, Miles had heard at least one Barrayaran fellow-officer describe them in
covert disgruntlement. The success of this integration was a high personal priority of
Gregor's. Admiral Vorpatril certainly knew it, too. Miles moved the mysterious fate of
Solian up a few notches in his mental list of most-urgent priorities.
What were the circumstances of his original disappearance?
Brun answered, Very quiet, my lord. He signed off-shift in the usual manner, and
never showed up for his next watch. When his cabin was finally checked, it seemed that
some of his personal effects and a valise were missing, although most of his uniforms
were left. There was no record of his finally leaving the ship, but then... he'd know
how to get out without being seen if anyone could. Which is why I posit desertion. The
ship was very thoroughly searched after that. He has to have altered the records, or
slipped out with the cargo, or something.
Any sense that he was unhappy in his work or place?
Not - no, my lord. Nothing special.
Anything not special?
Well, there was the usual chronic chaff about being a Komarran in this - Brun
gestured at himself - uniform. I suppose, where he was placed, he was in position to
get it from both sides.
We're trying to all be one side, now. Miles decided this was not the time or place to
pursue the unconscious assumptions behind Brun's word-choice. Cargomaster Molino - do
you have any sidelights on this? Was Solian subject to, ah, reproof from his fellow
Komarrans?
Molino shook his head. The man seemed to be well liked by the crew of the Idris as
far as I could tell. Stuck to business, didn't get into arguments.
Nevertheless, I gather that your first... impression, was that he had deserted?
It seemed possible, Brun admitted. I'm not casting aspersions, but he was
Komarran. Maybe he'd found it tougher than he thought it would be. Admiral Vorpatril
disagreed, he added scrupulously.
Vorpatril waved a hand in a gesture of judicious balance. The more reason not to
think desertion. High command's been pretty careful of what Komarrans they admit to the
Service. They don't want public failures.
In any case, said Brun, we put all our own security people on alert to search for
him, and asked for help from the Graf Station authorities. Which they were not
especially eager to offer. They just kept repeating they'd had no sign of him in either
the gravity or null-gee sections, and no record of anyone of his description leaving
the station on their local-space carriers.
And then what happened?
Admiral Vorpatril answered, Time ran on. Repairs on the Idris were completed and
signed off. Pressure, he eyed Molino without favor, grew to leave Graf Station and
continue on the planned route. Me - I don't leave my men behind if I can help it.
Molino said, rather through his teeth, It made no economic sense to tie up the
entire fleet over one man. You might have left one light vessel or even a small team of
investigators to pursue the matter, to follow on when they were concluded, and let the
rest continue.
I also have standing orders not to split the fleet, said Vorpatril, his jaw
tightening.
But we haven't suffered a hijacking attempt in this sector for decades, argued
Molino. Miles felt he was witnessing round n-plus-one of an ongoing debate.
Not since Barrayar began providing you with free military escorts, said Vorpatril,
with false cordiality. Odd coincidence, that. His voice grew firmer. I don't leave
my men. I swore that at the Escobar debacle, back when I was a milk-faced ensign. He
glanced at Miles. Under your father's command, as it happened.
Uh-oh. This could be trouble.... Miles let his brows climb in curiosity. What was
your experience there, sir?
Vorpatril snorted reminiscently. I was a junior pilot on a combat drop shuttle,
orphaned when our mothership was blown to hell by the Escos in high orbit. I suppose if
we'd made it back during the retreat, we'd have been blown up with her, but still.
Nowhere to dock, nowhere to run, even the few surviving ships that had an open docking
cradle not pausing for us, a couple of hundred men on board including wounded - it was
a right nightmare, let me tell you.
Miles felt the admiral had barely clipped off a son, at the end of that last
sentence.
Miles said cautiously, I'm not sure Admiral Vorkosigan had much choice left, by the
time he inherited command of the invasion after the death of Prince Serg.
Oh, none at all, Vorpatril agreed, with another wave of his hand. I'm not saying
the man didn't do all he could with what he had. But he couldn't do it all, and I was
among those sacrificed. Spent almost a year in an Escobaran prison camp, before the
negotiators finally got me mustered home. The Escobarans didn't make it a holiday for
us, I can tell you that.
It could have been worse. You might have been a female Escobaran prisoner of war in
one of our camps. Miles decided not to suggest this exercise of the imagination to the
admiral just now. I would expect not.
All I'm saying is, I know what it is to be abandoned, and I won't do it to men of
mine for any trivial reason. His narrow glance at the cargomaster made it clear that
evaporating Komarran corporate profits did not qualify as a weighty enough reason for
this violation of principle. Events proved - He hesitated, and rephrased himself.
For a time, I thought events had proved me right.
For a time, Miles echoed. Not any more?
Now... well... what happened next was pretty... pretty disturbing. There was an
unauthorized cycling of a personnel airlock in the Graf Station cargo bay next to where
the Idris was locked on. No ship or personnel pod was sighted at it, however - the tube
seals weren't activated. By the time the Station security guard got there, the bay was
empty. But there was a quantity of blood on the floor, and signs of something dragged
to the lock. The blood came up on testing as Solian's. It looked like he was trying to
make it back to the Idris, and someone jumped him.
Someone who didn't leave footprints, added Brun darkly.
At Miles's inquiring look, Vorpatril explained, In the gravitational areas where the
downsiders stay, the quaddies buzz around in these little personal floaters. They
operate 'em with their lower hands, leaving their upper arms free. No footprints. No
feet, for that matter.
Ah, yes. I understand, said Miles. Blood, but no body - has a body been found?
Not yet, said Brun.
Searched for?
Oh, yes. In all the possible trajectories.
I suppose it's occurred to you that a deserter might try to fake his own murder or
suicide, to free himself from pursuit.
I might have thought that, said Brun, but I saw the loading bay floor. No one
could lose that much blood and live. There must have been three or four liters at
least.
Miles shrugged. The first step in emergency cryonic prep is to exsanguinate the
patient and replace his blood with cryo-fluid. That can easily leave several liters of
blood on the floor, and the victim - well, potentially alive. He'd had close personal
experience of the process, or so Elli Quinn and Bel Thorne had told him afterward, on
that Dendarii Free Mercenary mission that had gone so disastrously wrong. Granted, he
didn't remember that part, except through Bel's extremely vivid description.
Brun's brows flicked up. I hadn't thought of that.
It rather sprang to my mind, said Miles apologetically. I could show you the scars.
Brun frowned, then shook his head. I don't think there would have been time before
Station security arrived on the scene.
Even if a portable cryochamber was standing ready?
Brun opened his mouth, then closed it again. He finally said, It's a complicated
scenario, my lord.
I don't insist on it, said Miles easily. He considered the other end of the cryo-
revival process. Except that I'd also point out that there are other sources of
several liters of nice fresh one's-own-personal blood besides a victim's body. Such as
a revival lab's or hospital's synthesizer. The product would certainly light up a
cursory DNA scan. You couldn't even call it a false positive, exactly. A bio-forensics
lab could tell the difference, though. Traces of cryo-fluid would be obvious, too, if
only someone thought to look for them. He added wistfully, I hate circumstantial
evidence. Who ran the identification check on the blood?
Brun shifted uncomfortably. The quaddies. We'd downloaded Solian's DNA scan to them
when he first went missing. But the security liaison officer from the Rudra had gone
over by then - he was right there in the bay watching their tech. He reported the match
to me as soon as the analyzer beeped. That's when I podded across to look at it all
myself.
Did he collect another sample to cross-check?
I... believe so. I can ask the fleet surgeon if he received one before, um, other
events overtook us.
Admiral Vorpatril sat looking unpleasantly stunned. I thought certainly poor Solian
was murdered. By some - He fell silent.
It doesn't sound as though that hypothesis is ruled out either, yet, Miles consoled
him. In any case, you honestly believed it at the time. Have your fleet surgeon
examine his samples more thoroughly, please, and report to me.
And to Graf Station Security, too?
Ah... maybe not them yet. Even if the results were negative, the query would only
serve to stir up more quaddie suspicions about Barrayarans. And if they were
positive... Miles wanted to think about that first. At any rate, what happened next?
That Solian was himself Fleet Security made his murder - apparent murder - seem
especially sinister, Vorpatril admitted. Had he been trying to get back with some
warning? We couldn't tell. So I canceled all leaves, went to alert status, and ordered
all ships to detach from dockside.
With no explanation of why, put in Molino.
Vorpatril glowered at him. During an alert, a commander does not stop to explain
orders. He expects to be instantly obeyed. Besides, the way you people had been
champing at the bit, complaining about the delays, I hardly thought I'd need to repeat
myself. A muscle jumped in his jaw; he inhaled and returned to his narrative. At this
point, we suffered something of a communications breakdown.
Here comes the smokescreen, at last.
Our understanding was that a two-man security patrol, sent to retrieve an officer
who was late reporting in -
That would be Ensign Corbeau?
Yes. Corbeau. As we understood it at the time, the patrol and the ensign were
attacked, disarmed, and detained by quaddies. The real story as it emerged later was
more complex, but that was what I had to go on as I was trying to clear Graf Station of
all our personnel and stand off for any contingency up to immediate evacuation from
local space.
Miles leaned forward. Did you believe it to be random quaddies who had seized your
men, or did you understand it to have been Graf Station Security?
Vorpatril didn't quite grind his teeth, but almost. He answered nonetheless, Yes, we
knew it was their security.
Did you ask your legal officer to advise you?
No.
Did Ensign Deslaurier volunteer advice?
No, my lord, Deslaurier managed to whisper.
I see. Go on.
I ordered Captain Brun to send a strike patrol in to retrieve, now, three men from a
situation that I believed had just proved lethally dangerous to Barrayaran personnel.
Armed with rather more than stunners, I understand?
I couldn't ask my men to go up against those numbers with only stunners, my lord,
said Brun. There are a million of those mutants out there!
Miles let his brows climb. On Graf Station? I thought its resident population was
around fifty thousand. Civilians.
Brun made an impatient gesture. A million to twelve, fifty thousand to twelve -
regardless, they needed weapons with authority. My rescue party needed to get in and
out as quickly as possible, having to deal with as little argument or resistance as
possible. Stunners are useless as weapons of intimidation.
I am familiar with the argument. Miles leaned back and rubbed his lips. Go on.
My patrol reached the place our men were being held -
Graf Station Security Post Number Three, was it not? Miles put in.
Yes.
Tell me - in all the time since the fleet has been here, hadn't any of your men on
leave had close encounters with Station Security? No drunk and disorderlies, no safety
violations, nothing?
Brun, looking as though the words were being pulled from his mouth with dental
pliers, said, Three men were arrested by Graf Station Security last week for racing
float chairs in an unsafe manner while inebriated.
And what happened to them? How did your fleet legal advisor handle it?
Ensign Deslaurier muttered, They spent a few hours in lock-up, then I went down and
saw that their fines were paid, and pledged to the stationer adjudicator that they
would be confined to quarters for the duration of our stay.
So you were all by then familiar with standard procedures for retrieving men from
contretemps with Station authorities?
These were not drunk and disorderlies this time. These were our own security forces
carrying out their duties, said Vorpatril.
Go on, sighed Miles. What happened with your patrol?
I still don't have their own firsthand reports, my lord, said Brun stiffly. The
quaddies have only let one unarmed medical officer visit them in their current place of
confinement. Shots were exchanged, both stunner and plasma fire, inside Security Post
Three. Quaddies swarmed the place, and our men were overwhelmed and taken prisoner.
The swarming quaddies had included, not unnaturally in Miles's view, most of the
Graf Station professional and volunteer fire brigades. Plasma fire. In a civilian space
station. Oh, my aching head.
So, said Miles gently, after we shot up the police station and set the habitat on
fire, what did we do for an encore?
Admiral Vorpatril's teeth set, briefly. I am afraid that, when the Komarran ships in
dock failed to obey my urgent orders to cast off and instead allowed themselves to be
locked down, I lost the initiative in the situation. Too many hostages had passed into
quaddie control by then, the Komarran independent captain-owners were entirely laggard
in obeying my position orders, and the quaddies' own militia, such as it is, was
allowed to move into position around us. We froze in a standoff for almost two full
days. Then we were ordered to stand down and wait your arrival.
Thank all the gods for that. Military intelligence was as nothing to military
stupidity. But to slide halfway to stupid and stop was rare indeed. Vorpatril deserved
some credit for that, at least.
Brun put in glumly, Not much choice at that point. It's not as though we could
threaten to blow up the station with our own ships in dock.
You couldn't blow up the station in any case, Miles pointed out mildly. It would
be mass murder. Not to mention a criminal order. The Emperor would have you shot.
Brun flinched and subsided.
Vorpatril's lips thinned. The Emperor, or you?
Gregor and I would flip a coin to see who got to go first.
A little silence fell.
Fortunately, Miles continued, it appears heads have cooled all round. For that,
Admiral Vorpatril, I do thank you. I might add, the fates of your respective careers
are a matter between you and your Ops command. Unless you manage to make me late for
the births of my very first children, in which case you'd better start looking for a
deep, deep hole. My job is to talk out as many of the Emperor's subjects from quaddie
hands, at the lowest prices, as I can. If I'm really lucky, when I'm done our trade
fleets may be able to dock here again someday. You have not given me an especially
strong hand of cards to play, here, unfortunately. Nonetheless, I'll see what I can do.
I want copies of all raw transcripts pertaining to these late events provided for my
review, please.
Yes, my lord, growled Vorpatril. But, his voice grew almost anguished, that
still doesn't tell me what happened to Lieutenant Solian!
I will undertake to give that question my keenest attention as well, Admiral. Miles
met his eyes. I promise you.
Vorpatril nodded shortly.
But, Lord Auditor Vorkosigan! Cargomaster Molino put in urgently. Graf Station
authorities are trying to fine our Komarran vessels for the damage done by Barrayaran
troops. It must be made plain to them that the military stands alone in this...
criminal activity.
Miles hesitated a long moment. How fortunate for you, Cargomaster, he said at last,
that in the event of a genuine attack, the reverse would not be true. He tapped the
table and rose to his feet.
CHAPTER THREE
Miles stood on tiptoe to peer through the little port beside the Kestrel's personnel
hatch as the ship maneuvered toward its assigned docking cradle. Graf Station was a
vast jumbled aggregation, an apparent chaos of design not surprising in an installation
in its third century of expansion. Somewhere buried in the core of the sprawling,
bristling structure was a small metallic asteroid, honeycombed for both space and the
material used in building this very oldest of the quaddies' many habitats. Also
somewhere in its innermost sections could still be seen, according to the guidevids,
actual elements from the broken-apart and reconfigured jumpship in which the initial
band of hardy quaddie pioneers had made their historic voyage to this refuge.
Miles stepped back and gestured Ekaterin to the port for a look. He reflected on the
political astrography of Quaddiespace, or rather, as it was formally designated, the
Union of Free Habitats. From this initial point, quaddie groups had leapfrogged out to
build daughter colonies in both directions along the inner of the two rings of
asteroids that had made this system so attractive to their ancestors. Several
generations and a million strong later, the quaddies were in no danger whatsoever of
running out of space, energy, or materials. Their population could expand as fast as it
chose to build.
Only a handful of their many scattered habitats maintained areas supplied with
artificial gravity for legged humans, either visitor or resident, or even dealt with
outsiders. Graf Station was one that did accept galactics and their trade, as did the
orbital arcologies dubbed Metropolitan, Sanctuary, Minchenko, and Union Station. This
last was the seat of Quaddie government, such as it was; a variant of bottom-up
representative democracy based, Miles was given to understand, on the work gang as its
primary unit. He hoped to God he wasn't going to end up negotiating with a committee.
Ekaterin glanced around and, with an excited smile, motioned Roic to take a turn. He
ducked his head and nearly pressed his nose to the port, staring in open curiosity.
This was Ekaterin's first trip outside the Barrayaran Empire, and Roic's first venture
off Barrayar ever. Miles paused to thank his habits of mild paranoia that before he'd
dragged them off world he'd troubled to send them both through a short intensive course
in space and free fall procedures and safety. He'd pulled rank and strings to get
access to the military academy facilities, albeit on a free week between scheduled
classes, for a tailored version of the longer course that Roic's older armsmen
colleagues had received routinely in their former Imperial Service training.
Ekaterin had been extremely startled when Miles had invited - persuaded - well,
hustled - her to join the bodyguard in the orbital school: daunted at first, exhausted
and close to mutiny partway through, proud and elated at the finish. For passenger
liners in pressurization trouble, it was the usual method to stuff their paying
customers into simple bubbles called bod pods to passively await rescue. Miles had been
stuck in a bod pod a time or two himself. He'd sworn that no man, and most especially
no wife, of his would ever be rendered so artificially helpless in an emergency. His
whole party had traveled with their own personally tailored quick-donning suits at
hand. Regretfully, Miles had left his old customized battle armor in storage....
Roic unbent from the port, looking especially stoic, faint vertical lines of worry
between his eyebrows.
Miles asked, Has everyone had their antinausea pills?
Roic nodded earnestly.
Ekaterin said, Have you had yours?
Oh, yes. He glanced down his plain gray civilian tunic and trousers. I used to
have this nifty bio-chip on my vagus nerve that kept me from losing my lunch in free
fall, but it got blown out with the rest of my guts in that unpleasant encounter with
the needle-grenade. I should get it replaced one of these days.... Miles stepped
forward and took one more glance outside. The station had grown to occlude most of the
view. So, Roic. If some quaddies visiting Hassadar made themselves obnoxious enough to
win a visit to the Municipal Guard's gaol, and then a bunch more quaddies popped up and
tried to bust them out with military-grade weapons, and shot up the place and torched
it and burned some of your comrades, just how would you feel about quaddies at that
point?
Um... not too friendly, m'lord. Roic paused. Pretty pissed, actually.
That's what I figured. Miles sighed. Ah. Here we go.
Clanks and thumps sounded as the Kestrel came gently to rest and the docking clamps
felt their way to a firm grip. The flex tube whined, seeking its seal, guided by the
Kestrel's engineer at the hatch controls, and then seated itself with an audible chink.
All tight, sir, the engineer reported.
All right, troops, we're on parade, Miles murmured, and waved Roic on.
The bodyguard nodded and slipped through the hatch; after a moment he called back,
Ready, m'lord.
All was, if not well, good enough. Miles followed through the flex tube, Ekaterin
close behind him. He stole a glance over his shoulder as he floated forward. She was
svelte and arresting in the red tunic and black leggings, her hair in a sophisticated
braid around her head. Zero gee had a charming effect on well-developed female anatomy
that he decided he had probably better not point out to her. As an opening move,
setting this first meeting in the null-gee section of Graf Station was clearly
calculated to put the visitors off balance, to emphasize just whose space this was. If
they'd wanted to be polite, the quaddies would have received them in one of the grav
sections.
The station-side airlock opened into a spacious cylindrical bay, its radial symmetry
airily dispensing with the concepts of up and down. Roic floated with one hand on
the grip by the hatch, the other kept carefully away from his stunner holster. Miles
craned his neck to take in the array of half a dozen quaddies, males and females, in
paramilitary grade half-armor, floating in cross-fire positions around the bay. Their
weapons were out but shouldered, formality masking threat. Lower arms, thicker and more
muscular than their uppers, emerged from their hips. Both sets of arms were protected
by plasma-deflecting vambraces. Miles couldn't help reflecting that here were people
who actually could shoot and reload at the same time. Interestingly, though two bore
the insignia of Graf Station Security, the rest were in the colors and badges of the
Union Militia.
Impressive window dressing, but these were not the people he needed to be attending
to. His gaze swept on to the three quaddies and the legged downsider waiting directly
across from the hatch. Faintly startled expressions, as they in turn took in his own
nonstandard appearance, were quickly suppressed on three out of four faces.
The senior Graf Station Security officer was instantly recognizable by his uniform,
weapons, and glower. Another middle-aged quaddie male also wore some sort of Stationer
uniform, slate blue, in a conservative style designed to reassure the public. A white-
haired female quaddie was more elaborately dressed in a maroon velvet doublet with
slashed upper sleeves, silky silver fabric puffing from the slits, with matching puffy
shorts and tight lower sleeves. The legged downsider also wore the slate-blue uniform,
except with trousers and friction boots. Short, graying brown hair floated around the
head that turned toward Miles. Miles choked, trying not to swear aloud in shock.
My God. It's Bel Thorne. What the devil was the ex-mercenary Betan hermaphrodite
doing here? The question answered itself as soon as it formed. So. Now I know who our
ImpSec observer on Graf Station is. Which, abruptly, raised the reliability of those
reports to a vastly higher level... or did it? Miles's smile froze, concealing, he
hoped, his sudden mental disarray.
The white-haired woman was speaking, in a very chilly tone - some automatic part of
Miles's mind pegged her as senior, as well as oldest, present. Good afternoon, Lord
Auditor Vorkosigan. Welcome to the Union of Free Habitats.
Miles, one hand still guiding a blinking Ekaterin into the bay, managed a polite
return nod. He left the second handhold flanking the hatch to her for an anchor, and
managed to set himself in air, without imparting an unwanted spin, right side up with
relation to the senior quaddie woman. Thank you, he returned neutrally. Bel, what the
hell... ? Give me a sign, dammit. The hermaphrodite returned his brief wide-eyed stare
with cool disinterest, and, as if casually, raised a hand to scratch the side of its
nose, signaling, perhaps, Wait for it....
I am Senior Sealer Greenlaw, the quaddie woman continued, and I have been assigned
by my government to meet with you and provide arbitration between you and your victims
on Graf Station. This is Crew Chief Venn of Graf Station Security, Boss Watts, who is
supervisor of Graf Station Downsider Relations, and Assistant Portmaster Bel Thorne.
How do you do, madam, gentlemen, honorable herm, Miles's mouth continued on
autopilot. He was too shaken by the sight of Bel to take exception to that your
victims, for now. Permit me to introduce my wife, Lady Ekaterin Vorkosigan, and my
personal assistant, Armsman Roic.
All the quaddies frowned disapprovingly at Roic. But now it was the turn for Bel's
eyes to widen, staring with sudden attention at Ekaterin. A purely personal aspect of
it all blazed across Miles's mind then, as he realized that he was shortly, very
probably, going to be in the unsettling position of having to introduce his new wife to
his old flame. Not that Bel's oft-expressed crush on him had ever been consummated,
exactly, to his retrospective sometimes-regret....
Portmaster Thorne, ah... Miles felt himself scrambling for firm footing in more
ways than one. His voice went brightly inquiring. Have we met?
I don't believe we've ever met, Lord Auditor Vorkosigan, no, returned Bel; Miles
hoped his was the only ear that detected the slight emphasis on his Barrayaran name and
title in that familiar alto drawl.
Ah. Miles hesitated. Throw out a lure, a line, something... My mother was Betan,
you know.
What a coincidence, Bel said blandly. So was mine.
Bel, goddammit! I have had the pleasure of visiting Beta Colony several times.
I haven't been back but once in decades. The faint light of Bel's notably vile
sense of humor faded in the brown eyes, and the herm relented as far as, I'd like to
hear about the old sandbox.
It would be my pleasure to discuss it, Miles responded, praying this exchange
sounded diplomatic and not cryptic. Soon, soon, bloody soon. Bel returned him a
cordial, acknowledging nod.
The white-haired quaddie woman gestured toward the end of the bay with her upper
right hand. If you would please accompany us to the conference chamber, Lord and Lady
Vorkosigan, Armsman Roic.
Certainly, Sealer Greenlaw. Miles favored her with an after you, ma'am half-bow in
air, then uncurled to get a foot to the wall to push off after her. Ekaterin and Roic
followed. Ekaterin arrived and braked at the round airseal door with reasonable grace,
though Roic landed crookedly with an audible thump. He'd used too much power pushing
off, but Miles couldn't stop to coach him on the fine points here. He'd come to the
right of it soon enough, or break an arm. The next series of corridors featured a
sufficiency of handgrips. The downsiders kept up with the quaddies, who both preceded
and followed; to Miles's secret satisfaction, none of the guards had to pause and
collect any out-of-control spinning or helplessly becalmed Barrayarans.
They came at length to a chamber with a window-wall offering a panoramic view out
across one arm of the station and into the deep, star-dusted void beyond. Any downsider
suffering from a touch of agoraphobia or pressurization paranoia would doubtless prefer
to cling to the wall on the opposite side. Miles floated gently up to the transparent
barrier, stopping himself with two delicately extended fingers, and surveyed the
spacescape; his mouth crooked up, unwilled. This is very fine, he said honestly.
He glanced around. Roic had found a wall grip near the door, awkwardly shared with
the lower hand of a quaddie guard, who glowered at him as they both shifted fingers
trying not to touch the other. The majority of the honor guard had been shed in the
adjoining corridor, and only two, one Graf Station and one Union, now hovered, albeit
alertly. The chamber end-walls featured decorative plants growing out of illuminated
spiraling tubes that held their roots in a hydroponic mist. Ekaterin paused by one,
examining the multicolored leaves closely. She tore her attention away, and her brief
smile faded, watching Miles, watching their quaddie hosts, watching for cues. Her eye
fell curiously on Bel, who was surveying Miles in turn, the herm's expression - well,
anyone else would see it as bland, probably. Miles suspected it was deeply ironic.
The quaddies took up position in a hemispherical arrangement around a central vid
plate, Bel hovering near its comrade-in-slate-blue, Boss Watts. Arching posts of
different heights featured the sort of com link control boards usually found on
station-chair arms, looking a bit like flowers on stalks, which provided suitably
spaced tethering points. Miles picked a post with his back to open space. Ekaterin
floated over and took up a spot a little behind him. She'd gone into her silent, highly
reserved mode, which Miles had to school himself not to read as unhappy; it might just
mean that she was processing too hard to remember to be animated. Fortunately, the
ivory-carved expression also simulated aristocratic poise.
A pair of younger quaddies, whose green shirt-and-shorts garb Miles's eye decoded as
servitor, offered drink bulbs all around; Miles selected something billed to be tea,
Ekaterin took fruit juice, and Roic, with a glance at his quaddie opposite numbers who
were offered none, declined. A quaddie could grip a handhold and a drink bulb, and
still have two hands left to draw and aim a weapon. It hardly seemed fair.
Senior Sealer Greenlaw, Miles began. My credentials, you should have received.
She nodded, her short, fine hair floating in a wispy halo with the motion. He
continued, I am, unfortunately, not wholly familiar with the cultural context and
meaning of your title. Who do you speak for, and do your words bind them in honor? That
is to say, do you represent Graf Station, a department within the Union of Free
Habitats, or some larger entity still? And who reviews your recommendations or
sanctions your agreements? And how long does it usually take them?
She hesitated, and he wondered if she was studying him with the same intensity that
he studied her. Quaddies were even longer-lived than Betans, who routinely made it to
one-hundred-and-twenty standard, and might expect to see a century and a half; how old
was this woman?
I am a Sealer for the Union's Department of Downsider Relations; I believe some
downsider cultures would term this a minister plenipotentiary for their state
department, or whatever body administers their embassies. I've served the department
for the past forty years, including tours as junior and senior counsel for the Union in
both our bordering systems.
The near neighbors to Quaddiespace, a few jumps away on heavily used routes; she was
saying she'd spent time on planets. And, incidentally, that she's been doing this job
since before I was born. If only she wasn't one of those people who figured that if
you'd seen one planet, you'd seen 'em all, this sounded promising. Miles nodded.
My recommendations and agreements will be reviewed by my work gang on Union Station
- which is the Board of Directors of the Union of Free Habitats.
Well, so there was a committee, but happily, they weren't here. Miles pegged her as
being roughly the equivalent of a senior Barrayaran minister in the Council of
Ministers, well up to his own weight as an Imperial Auditor. Granted, the quaddies had
nothing in their governmental structure equivalent to a Barrayaran Count, though they
seemed none the worse for the deprivation - Miles suppressed a dry snort. One layer
from the top, Greenlaw had a finite number of persons to please or persuade. He
permitted himself his first faint hope for a reasonably supple negotiation.
Her white brows drew in. They called you the Emperor's Voice. Do Barrayarans really
believe their emperor's voice comes from your mouth, across all those light-years?
Miles regretted his inability to lean back in a chair; he straightened his spine a
trifle instead. The name is a legal fiction, not a superstition, if that's what you're
asking. Actually, Emperor's Voice is a nickname for my job. My real title is Imperial
Auditor - a reminder that always my first task is to listen. I answer to - and for -
Emperor Gregor alone. This seemed a good place to leave out such complications as
potential impeachment by the Council of Counts, and other Barrayaran-style checks and
balances. Such as assassination.
The security officer, Venn, spoke up. So do you, or do you not, control the
Barrayaran military forces here in Union space? He'd evidently acquired enough
experience of Barrayaran soldiers by now to have a little trouble picturing the
slightly crooked runt floating before him dominating the bluff Vorpatril, or his no-
doubt large and healthy troopers.
Yeah, but you should see my Da... Miles cleared his throat. As the Emperor is
commander-in-chief of the Barrayaran military, his Voice is automatically the ranking
officer of any Barrayaran force in his vicinity, yes. If the emergency so demands it.
So are you saying that if you ordered it, those thugs out there would shoot? said
Venn sourly.
Miles managed a slight bow in his direction, not easy in free fall. Sir, if an
Emperor's Voice so ordered it, they'd shoot themselves.
This was pure swagger - well, part swagger - but Venn didn't need to know it. Bel
remained straight-faced, somehow, thank whatever gods hovered here, though Miles could
almost see the laugh getting choked back. Don't pop your eardrums, Bel. The Sealer's
white eyebrows took a moment to climb back down to horizontal again.
Miles continued, Nevertheless, while it's not hard to get any group of persons
excited enough to shoot at things, one purpose of military discipline is to ensure they
also stop shooting on command. This is not a time for shooting, but for talking - and
listening. I am listening. He tented his fingers in front of what would be his lap, if
he were sitting. From your point of view, what was the sequence of events that led to
this unfortunate incident?
Greenlaw and Venn both started to speak at once; the quaddie woman opened an upper
hand in a gesture of invitation to the security officer.
Venn nodded and continued, It started when my department received an emergency call
to apprehend a pair of your men who had assaulted a quaddie woman.
Here was a new player on stage. Miles kept his expression neutral. Assaulted in what
sense?
Broke into her living quarters, roughed her up, threw her around, broke one of her
arms. They evidently had been sent in pursuit of a certain Barrayaran officer who had
failed to report for duty -
Ah. Would that be Ensign Corbeau?
Yes.
And was he in her living quarters?
Yes -
By her invitation?
Yes. Venn grimaced. They had apparently, um, become friends. Garnet Five is a
premier dancer in the Minchenko Memorial Troupe, which performs live zero-gee ballet
for residents of the Station and for downsider visitors. Venn inhaled. It is not
entirely clear who went to whose defense when the Barrayaran patrol came to remove
their tardy officer, but it degenerated into a noisy brawl. We arrested all the
downsiders and took them to Security Post Three to sort out.
By the way, Sealer Greenlaw broke in, your Ensign Corbeau has lately requested
political asylum in the Union.
This was new, too. How lately?
This morning. When he learned you were coming.
Miles hesitated. He could imagine a dozen scenarios to account for this, ranging from
the sinister to the foolish; he couldn't help it that his mind leapt to the sinister.
Are you likely to grant it? he asked finally.
She glanced at Boss Watts, who made a little noncommittal gesture with a lower hand
and said, My department has taken it under advisement.
If you want my advice, you'll bounce it off the far wall, growled Venn. We don't
need that sort here.
I should like to interview Ensign Corbeau at the earliest convenience, said Miles.
Well, he evidently doesn't want to talk to you, said Venn.
Nevertheless. I consider firsthand observation and eyewitness testimony critical for
my correct understanding of this complex chain of events. I'll also need to speak with
the other Barrayaran - he clipped the word hostages, and substituted, detainees, for
the same reason.
It's not that complex, said Venn. A bunch of armed thugs came charging onto my
station, violated customs, stunned dozens of innocent bystanders and a number of
Station Security officers attempting to carry out their duties, tried to effect what
can only be called a jailbreak, and vandalized property. Charges against them for their
crimes - documented on vid! - range from the discharge of illegal weapons to resisting
arrest to arson in an inhabited area. It's a miracle that no one was killed.
That, unfortunately, has yet to be demonstrated, Miles countered instantly. The
trouble is that from our point of view, the arrest of Ensign Corbeau was not the
beginning of the sequence of events. Admiral Vorpatril had reported a man missing well
before that - Lieutenant Solian. According to both your witnesses and ours, a quantity
of his blood tantamount to a body part was found on the floor of a Graf Station loading
bay. Military loyalty runs two ways - Barrayarans do not abandon our own. Dead or
alive, where is the rest of him?
Venn nearly ground his teeth. We looked for the man. He is not on Graf Station. His
body is not in space in any reasonable trajectory from Graf Station. We checked. We've
told Vorpatril that, repeatedly.
How hard - or easy - is it for a downsider to disappear in Quaddiespace?
If I may answer that, Bel Thorne broke in smoothly, as that incident impinges on
my department.
Greenlaw motioned assent with a lower hand, while simultaneously rubbing the bridge
of her nose with an upper.
Boarding to and from galactic ships here is fully controlled, not only from Graf
Station, but from our other nexus trade depots as well. It is, if not impossible, at
least difficult to pass through customs and immigration areas without leaving some sort
of record, including general vid monitors of the areas. Your Lieutenant Solian does not
show up anywhere in our computer or visual records for that day.
Truly? Miles gave Bel a look, Is this the straight story?
Bel returned a brief nod, Yes. Truly. Now, in-system travel is much less strictly
controlled. It is more... feasible, for someone to pass out of Graf Station to another
Union habitat without notice. If that person is a quaddie. Any downsider, however,
would stand out in the crowd. Standard missing-person procedures were followed in this
case, including notifications of other habitat security departments. Solian has simply
not been seen, on Graf Station or any other Union habitat.
How do you account for his blood in the loading bay?
The loading bay is on the outboard side of the station access control points. It is
my opinion that whoever created that scene came from and returned to one of the ships
in that docks-and-locks sector.
Miles silently noted Bel's word choice, whoever created that scene, not whoever
murdered Solian. Of course, Bel had been present at a certain spectacular emergency
cryo-prep, too....
Venn put in irritably, All of which were ships from your fleet, at the time. In
other words, you brought your own troubles with you. We are a peaceful people here!
Miles frowned thoughtfully at Bel, and mentally reshuffled his plan of attack. Is
the loading bay in question very far from here?
It's on the other side of the station, said Watts.
I think I would like to see it, and its associated areas, first, before I interview
Ensign Corbeau and the other Barrayarans. Perhaps Portmaster Thorne would be so good as
to conduct me on a tour of the facility?
Bel glanced at Boss Watts and got an approving low sign.
I should be very pleased to do so, Lord Vorkosigan, said Bel.
Next, perhaps? We could take my ship around.
That would be very efficient, yes, replied Bel, eyes brightening with appreciation.
I could accompany you.
Thank you. Good catch. That would be most satisfactory.
Wild as Miles now was to get away and shake Bel down in private, he had to smile his
way through further formalities, including the official presentation of the list of
charges, costs, fines, and punitive fines Vorpatril's strike force had garnered. He
plucked the data disk Boss Watts spun to him delicately out of the air and intoned,
Note, please, I do not accept these charges. I will, however, undertake to review them
fully at the earliest possible moment.
A lot of unsmiling faces greeted this pronouncement. Quaddie body language was a
study in its own right. Talking with one's hands was fraught with so many more
possibilities, here. Greenlaw's hands were very controlled, both uppers and lowers.
Venn clenched his lower fists a lot, but then, Venn had helped carry out his burned
comrades after the fire.
The conference drew to an end without achieving anything resembling closure, which
Miles counted as a small victory for his side. He was getting away without committing
himself or Gregor to anything much, so far. He didn't yet see how to twist this
unpromising tangle his way. He needed more data, subliminals, people, some handle or
lever he hadn't spotted yet. I need to talk to Bel.
That wish, at least, looked to be granted. At Greenlaw's word, the meeting broke up,
and the honor guard escorted the Barrayarans back through the corridors to the bay
where the Kestrel waited.
CHAPTER FOUR
At the Kestrel's lock, Boss Watts took Bel aside for a low-voiced conversation with
some anxious hand waving. Bel shook its head, made calm down gestures, and finally
turned to follow Miles, Ekaterin, and Roic through the flex tube and into the Kestrel's
tiny and now crowded personnel hatch deck. Roic stumbled and looked a trifle dizzied,
readjusting to the grav field, but then found his balance again. He frowned warily at
the Betan hermaphrodite in the quaddie uniform. Ekaterin flashed a covertly curious
glance.
What was that all about? Miles asked Bel as the airlock door slid shut.
Watts wanted me to take a bodyguard or three. To protect me from the brutal
Barrayarans. I told him there wouldn't be room aboard, and besides, you were a diplomat
- not a soldier. Bel, head cocked, gave him an indecipherable look. Is that so?
It is now. Uh... Miles turned to Lieutenant Smolyani, manning the hatch controls.
Lieutenant, we're going to take the Kestrel around to the other side of Graf Station
to another docking cradle. Their traffic control will direct you. Go as slowly as you
can without looking odd. Take two or three tries to align with the docking clamps, or
something.
My lord! said Smolyani indignantly. ImpSec fast courier pilots made a religion out
of fast, tight maneuvering and swift, perfect dockings. In front of these people?
Well, do it however you wish, but buy me some time. I need to talk with this herm.
Go, go. He waved Smolyani out. He drew breath, and added to Roic and Ekaterin, We'll
take over the wardroom. Excuse us, please. Thus consigning her and Roic to their
cramped cabins to wait. He gripped Ekaterin's hand in brief apology. He dared not say
more until he'd decanted Bel in private. There were security angles, political angles,
personal angles - how many angles could dance on the head of a pin? - and, as the first
thrill of seeing that familiar face alive and well wore off, the nagging memory that
the last time they'd met, the purpose had been to strip Bel of command and discharge it
from the mercenary fleet for its unfortunate role in the bloody Jackson's Whole
debacle. He wanted to trust Bel. Dare he?
Roic was too well trained to ask, Are you sure you don't want me to come with you,
m'lord? out loud, but from the expression on his face he was doing his best to send it
telepathically.
I'll explain it all later, Miles promised Roic in an under-voice, and sent him on
his way with what he hoped was a reassuring half-salute.
He led Bel the few steps to the tiny chamber that doubled as the Kestrel's wardroom,
dining room, and briefing room, shut both its doors, and activated the security cone. A
faint hum from the projector on the ceiling and a shimmer in the air surrounding the
wardroom's circular dining/vid conference table assured him it was working. He turned
to find Bel watching him, head a little to one side, eyes quizzical, lips quirked. He
hesitated a moment. Then, simultaneously, they both burst into laughter. They fell on
each other in a hug; Bel pounded him on the back, saying in a tight voice, Damn, damn,
damn, you sawed-off little half-breed maniac...
Miles fell back, breathless. Bel, by God. You look good.
Older, surely?
That, too. But I don't think I'm the one to talk.
You look terrific. Healthy. Solid. I take it that woman's been feeding you right? Or
doing something right, anyway.
Not fat, though? Miles said anxiously.
No, no. But the last time I saw you, right after they thawed you out of cryo-freeze,
you looked like a skull on a stick. You had us all worried.
Bel remembered that last meeting with the same clarity as he did, evidently. More,
perhaps.
I worried about you, too. Have you... been all right? How the devil did you end up
here? Was that a delicate enough inquiry?
Bel's brows rose a trifle, reading who-knew-what expression on Miles's face. I
suppose I was a little disoriented at first, after I parted company with the Dendarii
Mercenaries. Between Oser and you as commanders, I'd served there almost twenty-five
years.
I was sorry as hell about it.
I'd say, not half as sorry as I was, but you were the one who did the dying. Bel
looked away briefly. Among other people. It wasn't as if either of us had a choice, at
that point. I couldn't have gone on. And - in the long run - it was a good thing. I'd
got in a rut without knowing it, I think. I needed something to kick me out of it. I
was ready for a change. Well, not ready, but...
Miles, hanging on Bel's words, was reminded of their place. Sit, sit. He gestured
to the little table; they took seats next to each other. Miles rested his arm on the
dark surface and leaned closer to listen.
Bel continued, I even went home for a little while. But I found that a quarter of a
century kicking around the Nexus as a free herm had put me out of step with Beta
Colony. I took a few spacer jobs, some at the suggestion of our mutual employer. Then I
drifted in here. Bel tucked its gray-brown bangs up off its forehead with spread
fingers, a familiar gesture; they promptly fell back again, even more heart-catching.
ImpSec's not my employer any more, exactly, Miles said.
Oh? So what are they, exactly?
Miles hesitated over this one. My... intelligence utility, he chose at last. By
virtue of my new job.
Bel's eyebrows went up farther, this time. This Imperial Auditor thing isn't a cover
for the latest covert ops scam, then.
No. It's the real thing. I'm done with scam.
Bel's lips twitched. What, with that funny accent?
This is my real voice. The Betan accent I affected for Admiral Naismith was the put-
on. Sort of. Not that I didn't learn it at my mother's knee.
When Watts told me the name of the supposedly-hot-shot envoy the Barrayarans were
sending out, I thought it had to be you. That's why I made sure to get myself onto the
welcoming committee. But this Emperor's Voice thing sounded like something out of a
fairy tale, to me. Until I got to the fine print. Then it sounded like something out of
a really gruesome fairy tale.
Oh, did you look up my job description?
Yeah, it's pretty amazing what's in the historical databases here. Quaddiespace is
fully plugged in to the galactic information exchange, I've found. They're almost as
good as Beta, despite having only a fraction of the population. Imperial Auditor's a
pretty stunning promotion - whoever handed you that much unsupervised power on a
platter has to be almost as much of a lunatic as you are. I want to hear your
explanation of that.
Yes, it can take some explaining, to non-Barrayarans. Miles took a breath. You
know, that cryo-revival of mine was a little dicey. Do you remember the seizures I was
having, right after?
Yes... said Bel cautiously.
They turned out to be a permanent side effect, unfortunately. Too much for even
ImpSec's version of the military to tolerate in a field officer. As I managed to
demonstrate in a particularly spectacular manner, but that's another story. It was a
medical discharge, officially. So that was the end of my galactic covert ops career.
Miles's smile twisted. I had to get an honest job. Fortunately, Emperor Gregor gave me
one. Everyone assumes my appointment was high Vor nepotism at work, for my father's
sake. Over time, I trust I'll prove them wrong.
Bel was silent for a moment, face set. So. It seems I killed Admiral Naismith after
all.
Don't hog the blame. You had lots of help, Miles said dryly. Including mine. He
was reminded that this slice of privacy was precious and limited. It's all blood over
the dam now anyway, for you and me both. We have other crises on our plate today.
Quickly, from the top - I've been assigned to straighten out this mess, to Barrayar's,
if not benefit, least-cost. If you're our ImpSec informer here - are you?
Bel nodded.
After Bel had handed in its resignation from the Dendarii Free Mercenaries, Miles had
seen to it that the hermaphrodite had gone on ImpSec's payroll as a civilian informer.
In part it was payback for all Bel had done for Barrayar before the ill-conceived
disaster that had ended Bel's career directly and Miles's indirectly, but mostly it had
been to keep ImpSec from getting lethally excited about Bel wandering the wormhole
nexus with a head full of hot Barrayaran secrets. Aging, tepid secrets now, for the
most part. Miles had figured the illusion that they held Bel's string would prove
reassuring to ImpSec, and so it had apparently proved. Portmaster, eh? What a superb
job for an intelligence observer. Data on everyone and everything that passes in and
out of Graf Station at your fingertips. Did ImpSec place you here?
No, I found this job on my own. Sector Five was happy, though. Which, at the time,
seemed an added bonus.
I'd think they damned well should be happy.
The quaddies like me, too. It seems I'm good at handling all sorts of upset
downsiders, without losing my equilibrium. I don't explain to them that after years of
trailing around after you, my definition of an emergency is seriously divergent from
theirs.
Miles grinned and made calculations in his head. Then your most recent reports are
probably still somewhere in transit between here and Sector Five headquarters.
Yeah, that's what I figure.
What are the most important things I need to know?
Well, for one, we really haven't seen your Lieutenant Solian. Or his body. Really.
Union Security hasn't stinted on the search for him. Vorpatril - is he any relation to
your cousin Ivan, by the way?
Yes, a distant one.
I thought I sensed a family resemblance. In more ways than one. Anyway, he thinks
we're lying. But we're not. Also, your people are idiots.
Yes. I know. But they're my idiots. Tell me something new.
All right, here's a good one. Graf Station Security has pulled all the passengers
and crew off the Komarran ships impounded in dock and lodged 'em in station-side
hostels, to prevent ill-considered actions and to put pressure on Vorpatril and Molino.
Naturally, they're none too happy. The supercargo - non-Komarrans who just took passage
for a few jumps - are wild to get away. Half a dozen have tried to bribe me to let them
take their goods off the Idris or the Rudra, and transfer off Graf Station on somebody
else's ships.
Have any, ah, succeeded?
Not yet. Bel smirked. Although if the price keeps going up at the current rate,
even I could be tempted. Anyway, several of the most anxious ones struck me as...
potentially interesting.
Check. Have you reported this to your Graf Station employers?
I made a remark or two. But it's only suspicion. The individuals are all well
behaved, so far - especially compared to Barrayarans - it's not like we have any
pretext for fast-penta interrogations.
Attempting to bribe an official, Miles suggested.
I hadn't actually mentioned that last part to Watts yet. At Miles's raised
eyebrows, Bel added, Did you want more legal complications?
Ah - no.
Bel snorted. Didn't think so. The herm paused a moment, as if marshaling its
thoughts. Anyway, back to the idiots. Your Ensign Corbeau, to wit.
Yes. That political asylum request of his has got all my antennae quivering.
Granted, he was in some trouble for being late reporting in, but why is he suddenly
trying to desert? What connection does he have to Solian's disappearance?
Not any, as far as I've been able to make out. I actually met the fellow, before all
this blew up.
Oh? How and where?
Socially, as it happens. What is it about you people who run sexually segregated
fleets that makes you all disembark insane? No, don't bother answering that, I think we
all know. But the all-male military organizations who have that custom for religious or
cultural reasons all come onto station leave like some horrible combination of kids let
out of school and convicts let out of prison. The worst of both, actually - the
judgment of children combined with the sexual deprivation of - never mind. The quaddies
cringe when they see you coming. If you didn't spend money with such wild abandon, I
think the commercial stations in the Union would all vote to quarantine you aboard your
own ships and let you die of blue balls.
Miles rubbed his forehead. Let's get back to Ensign Corbeau, shall we?
Bel grinned. We hadn't left. So, this backwoods Barrayaran boy on his first-ever
trip into the glittering galaxy tumbles off his ship and, being under instructions, as
I understand it, to enhance his cultural horizons -
That is actually correct.
Goes off to see the Minchenko Ballet. Which is something to behold in any case. You
should take it in while you're station-side.
What, it isn't just, uh, exotic dancers?
Not in the advertising-for-the-sex-workers sense. Or even in the Betan Orb ultra-
classy sexual smorgasbord and training academy sense.
Miles considered, then reconsidered, mentioning his and Ekaterin's honeymoon layover
at the Orb of Unearthly Delights, possibly the most peculiarly useful stop on their
itinerary... Focus, my Lord Auditor.
It's exotic, and it's dancers, but it's real art, the real thing - it goes way
beyond craft. A two-hundred-year-old tradition, a jewel of this culture. The fool boy
ought to have fallen in love at first sight. It was his subsequent pursuit with all
guns blazing - in the metaphorical sense, this time - that was a little out of line.
Soldier on leave falls madly in lust with local girl is not precisely a new scenario,
but what I really don't understand is what Garnet Five saw in him. I mean, he's a nice
enough looking young male, but still... ! Bel smiled slyly. Too tall for my taste.
Not to mention too young.
Garnet Five is this quaddie dancer, yes?
Yes.
Remarkable enough, for a Barrayaran to be attracted to a quaddie; the deeply
ingrained cultural prejudice against anything that smacked of mutation would seem to
work against it. Had Corbeau received less than the usual indulgent understanding from
his fellows and superiors that a young officer in such a plight might ordinarily
expect?
And your connection with all this is - what?
Did Bel take an apprehensive breath? Nicol plays harp and hammer dulcimer in the
Minchenko Ballet orchestra. You do remember Nicol, the quaddie musician we rescued
during that personnel pickup that almost went down the disposer?
I remember Nicol vividly. And so, apparently, had Bel. I gather she made it home
safely after all.
Yes. Bel's smile grew tenser. Not surprisingly, she also remembers you vividly -
Admiral Naismith.
Miles went still for a moment. At last he said cautiously, Do, ah... you know her
well? Can you command, or persuade, her discretion?
I live with her, said Bel briefly. No one needs to command anything. She is
discreet.
Oh. Much becomes clear...
But she's a personal friend of Garnet Five's. Who is in a tearing panic over all of
this. She's convinced, among other things, that the Barrayaran command wants to shoot
her boyfriend out of hand. The pair of thugs that Vorpatril sent to pick up your stray
evidently - well, it went beyond rude. They were insulting and brutal, for starters,
and it slid downhill from there. I've heard the unabridged version.
Miles grimaced. I know my countrymen. You can take the ugly details as read,
thanks.
Nicol has asked me to do what I can for her friend and her friend's friend. I
promised I'd put in a word. This is it.
I understand. Miles sighed. I can't make any promises yet. Except to listen to
everyone.
Bel nodded and looked away. It said after a moment, This Imperial Auditor gig of
yours - you're a big wheel in the Barrayaran machine now, huh?
Something like that, said Miles.
The Emperor's Voice sounds like it would be pretty loud. People listen, do they?
Well, Barrayarans do. The rest of the galaxy - one side of Miles's mouth turned up
- tend to think it's some kind of fairy tale.
Bel shrugged apologetically. ImpSec is Barrayarans. So. The thing is, I've come to
like this place - Graf Station, Quaddiespace. And these people. I like them a lot. I
believe you'll see why, if I get much chance to show you around. I'm thinking of
settling here permanently.
That's... nice, said Miles. Where are you taking me, Bel?
But if I do take an oath of citizenship here - and I've been thinking hard about it
for a while - I want to take it honestly. I can't offer them a false oath, or divided
loyalties.
Your Betan citizenship never interfered with your career in the Dendarii
Mercenaries, Miles pointed out.
You never asked me to operate on Beta Colony, said Bel.
And if I had?
I... would have faced a dilemma. Bel's hand stretched in urgent entreaty. I want a
clean start, with no secret strings attached. You claim ImpSec is your personal utility
now. Miles - can you please fire me again?
Miles sat back and chewed on his knuckle. Cut you loose from ImpSec, you mean?
Yes. From all old obligations.
He blew out his breath. But you're so valuable to us here! I... don't know.
Don't know if you have the power? Or don't know if you want to use it?
Miles temporized, This power business has proved a lot stranger than I anticipated.
You'd think more power would bring one more freedom, but I've found it's brought me
less. Every word that comes out of my mouth has this weight that it never had before,
when I was babbling Mad Miles, hustler of the Dendarii. I never had to watch my mass
like this. It's... damned uncomfortable, sometimes.
I'd have thought you'd love it.
I'd have thought that too.
Bel leaned back, easing off. It would not make the request again, not soon, anyway.
Miles drummed his fingers on the cool, reflective surface of the table. If there is
anything more behind this mess than overexcitement and bad judgment - not that that
isn't enough - it hinges on the evaporation of that Komarran fleet security fellow,
Solian -
Miles wrist com chimed, and he raised it to his lips. Yes?
M'lord, came Roic's apologetic voice. We're in dock again now.
Right. Thanks. We'll be out directly. He rose from the table, saying, You must
meet Ekaterin properly, before we go back out there and have to play dumb again. She
and Roic have full Barrayaran security clearances, by the way - they have to, to live
this close to me. They both need to know who you are, and that they can trust you.
Bel hesitated. Do they really need to know I'm ImpSec? Here?
They might, in an emergency.
I would particularly like the quaddies not to know I've been selling intelligence to
downsiders, you see. Maybe it would be safer if you and I were mere acquaintances.
Miles stared. But Bel, she knows perfectly well who you are. Or were, anyway.
What, have you been telling covert ops war stories to your wife? Clearly
disconcerted, Bel frowned. Those rules always applied to someone else, didn't they?
Her clearance was earned, not just granted, Miles said a little stiffly. But Bel,
we sent you a wedding invitation! Or... did you get it? ImpSec notified me it was
delivered -
Oh, said Bel, looking confused. That. Yes. I did get it.
Was it delivered too late? It should have included a travel voucher - if someone
pocketed that, I'll have his hide -
No, the voucher came through all right. About a year and a half ago, yes? I could
have made it, if I'd scrambled a bit. It just arrived at an awkward period for me. Kind
of a low point. I'd just left Beta for the last time, and I was in the middle of a
little job I was doing for ImpSec. Arranging a substitute would have been difficult. It
was just effort, at a time when more effort... I wished you well, though, and hoped
you'd finally got lucky. A wry grin flashed. Again.
Finding the right Lady Vorkosigan... was a bigger, rarer kind of luck than any I'd
had before. Miles sighed. Elli Quinn didn't come either. Though she sent a present
and a letter. Neither especially demure.
Hm, said Bel, smiling a little. And added rather slyly, And Sergeant Taura?
She attended. Miles's lips curled up, unwilled. Spectacularly. I had a burst of
genius, and put my Aunt Alys in charge of getting her dressed civilian-style. It kept
them both happily occupied. The old Dendarii contingent all missed you. Elena and Baz
were there - with their new baby girl, if you can imagine it - and Arde Mayhew, too. So
the very beginning of it all was fully represented. It was as well that the wedding was
small. A hundred and twenty people is small, yes? It was Ekaterin's second, you see -
she was a widow. And profoundly stressed thereby. Her tense, distraught state the
night before the wedding had reminded Miles forcibly of a particular species of
precombat nerves he'd seen in troops facing, not their first, but their second battle.
The night after the wedding, now - that had gone much better, thank God.
Longing and regret had shadowed Bel's face during this recitation of old friends
lifting a glass to new beginnings. Then the herm's expression sharpened. Baz Jesek,
back on Barrayar? said Bel. Someone must have worked out his little problems with the
Barrayaran military authorities, eh?
And if Someone could arrange Baz's relationship with ImpSec, maybe that same Someone
might arrange Bel's? Bel didn't even need to make the point out loud. Miles said, The
old desertion charges made too good a cover when Baz was active in ops to allow them to
be rescinded, but the need had become obsolete. Baz and Elena are both out of the
Dendarii too, now. Hadn't you heard? We're all getting to be history. All of us who
made it out alive, anyway.
Yes, sighed Bel. There is a deal of sanity to be saved in letting the past go, and
moving on. The herm glanced up. If the past will let you go too, that is. So let's
keep this as simple as possible with your people, please?
All right, Miles agreed reluctantly. For now, we'll mention the past, but not the
present. Don't worry - they'll be, ah - discreet. He deactivated the security cone
above the little conference table and unlocked the doors. Raising his wrist com to his
lips, he murmured, Ekaterin, Roic, could you step over to the wardroom, please.
When they had both arrived, Ekaterin smiling expectantly, Miles said, We've had a
piece of undeserved good fortune. Although Portmaster Thorne works for the quaddies
now, the herm's an old friend of mine from an organization I worked with in my ImpSec
days. You can rely on what Bel has to say.
Ekaterin held out her hand. I'm so glad to meet you at last, Captain Thorne. My
husband and his old friends have spoken highly of you. I believe you were much missed
from their company.
Looking decidedly bemused, but rising to the challenge, Bel shook her hand. Thank
you, Lady Vorkosigan. But I don't go by that old rank here. Portmaster Thorne, or just
call me Bel.
Ekaterin nodded. And please call me Ekaterin. Oh - in private, I suppose. She
looked a silent inquiry at Miles.
Ah, right, said Miles. His gesture took in Roic, who looked attentive. Bel knew me
under another identity then. As far as Graf Station is concerned, we've just met. But
we've hit it off splendidly, and Bel's talent for dealing with difficult downsiders is
paying off for them.
Roic nodded. Got it, m'lord.
Miles shepherded them into the hatch bay where the Kestrel's engineer waited to pipe
them back aboard Graf Station. He reflected that yet another reason Ekaterin's security
clearance needed to be as high as his own was that, according to several persons'
historical reports and her own witness, he talked in his sleep. Until Bel grew less
nervy over the situation, he decided he'd probably better not mention this.
* * *
Two quaddie Station Security men waited for them in the freight loading bay. This
being the section of Graf Station supplied with artificially generated gravitational
fields for the comfort and health of its downsider visitors and residents, the pair
hovered in personal float chairs with Station Security markings emblazoned on the
sides. The floaters were stubby cylinders, barely larger in diameter than a man's
shoulders, and the general effect was of people riding in levitating washtubs, or maybe
the Baba Yaga's magic flying mortar from Barrayaran folklore. Bel gave the quaddie
sergeant a nod and a murmured greeting as they emerged into the echoing cavern of the
loading bay. The sergeant returned the nod, evidently reassured, and turned his close
attention to the dangerous Barrayarans. Since the dangerous Barrayarans were frankly
gawking like tourists, Miles hoped the tough-looking fellow would soon grow less
twitchy.
This personnel lock here, Bel pointed back to the one by which they'd just entered,
was the one that was opened by the unauthorized person. The blood trail ended in it,
in a smeary smudge. It started, Bel walked across the bay toward the wall to the
right, a few meters away, not far from the door to the next bay. This is where the
large pool of blood was found.
Miles walked after Bel, studying the deck. It had been cleaned up in the several days
since the incident. Did you see this yourself, Portmaster Thorne?
Yes, about an hour after it was first found. The mob had arrived by then, but
Security had been pretty good about keeping the area uncontaminated.
Miles had Bel walk him around the bay, detailing all exits. It was a standard sort of
place, utilitarian, undecorated, efficient; a few pieces of freight-handling equipment
stood silently in the opposite end, near a darkened, airsealed control booth. Miles had
Bel unlock it and give him a look inside. Ekaterin too walked about, clearly glad to
have room to stretch her legs after several days cooped up in the Kestrel. Her
expression, gazing about the cool, echoing space, was thoughtfully reminiscent, and
Miles smiled in appreciation.
They returned to the spot where the blood implied Lieutenant Solian's throat had been
cut, and discussed the details of the spatter marks and smears. Roic observed with keen
professional interest. Miles had one of the quaddie guards give up his float tub;
scooped out of his shell, he sat up on the deck on his haunches and lower arms, looking
a bit like a large, disgruntled frog. Quaddie locomotion in a gravity field without a
floater was rather disturbing to watch. They either went on all fours, only slightly
more mobile than a person on hands and knees, or managed a sort of forward-leaning,
elbows-out, upright chicken-walk on their lower hands. Either mode looked very wrong
and ungainly, compared to their grace and agility in zero gee.
With Bel, whom Miles judged to be about the right size for a Komarran, cooperatively
playing the part of the corpse, they experimented with the problem of a person in a
float chair shifting seventy or so kilos of inert meat the several meters to the
airlock. Bel wasn't as slim and athletic as formerly, either; the added, ah, masses
made it harder for Miles to fall back into his old subconscious default habit of
thinking of Bel as male. Probably just as well. Miles found it extremely difficult,
legs folded awkwardly in a seat not designed for them, trying to keep one hand on the
float chair controls at roughly crotch level and also maintain a grip on Bel's
clothing. Bel tried trailing either an arm or a leg artistically over the side; Miles
stopped short of pouring water down Bel's sleeve to try to duplicate the smears.
Ekaterin did little better than he did, and Roic, surprisingly, worse. His superior
strength was counteracted by the awkwardness of squeezing his greater size into the
cup-like space, his knees sticking up, and trying to work the hand controls in the
constricted clearances. The quaddie sergeant managed it handily, but glowered at Miles
afterwards.
Floaters, Bel explained, were not hard to come by, being considered shared public
property, although quaddies who spent a lot of time on the grav side sometimes owned
their own personalized models. The quaddies kept racks of floaters by the access ports
between the grav and the free fall sections of the station, for any quaddie to grab and
use, and drop off again upon returning. They were numbered for maintenance record
purposes, but not tracked otherwise. Anyone could obtain one by simply walking up and
getting in, apparently, even drunken Barrayaran soldiers on leave.
When we came into that first docking cradle around on the other side, I noticed a
lot of personal craft puttering around the outside of the station - pushers, personnel
pods, in-system flitters, Miles said to Bel. It occurs to me that someone could have
picked up Solian's body within a short time of its being ejected from the airlock, and
removed it damned near tracelessly. It could be anywhere by now, including still stored
in a pod airlock or put through a disposer in one-kilo lumps or tucked away to mummify
in some random asteroid crevice. Which offers an alternate explanation of why it hasn't
been found floating out there. But that scenario requires either two persons, with
prior planning, or one spontaneous murderer who moved very quickly. How much time would
a single person have had between the throat-cutting and the pickup?
Bel, straightening uniform and hair after the last drag across the loading bay,
pursed its lips. There were maybe five or ten minutes between the time the lock
cycled, and the time the security guard arrived to check it. Maybe twenty minutes max
after that before all sorts of people were looking around outside. In thirty minutes...
yes, one person could just about have dumped the body, run to another bay and jumped in
a small craft, zipped around, and collected it again.
Good. Get me a list of everything that went out a lock in that period. For the sake
of the listening quaddie guards he remembered to add a formal, If you please,
Portmaster Thorne.
Certainly, Lord Auditor Vorkosigan.
Seems damned odd to go to all that trouble to remove the body but leave the blood,
though. Timing? Tried to get back to clean up, but it was too late? Something very,
very strange to hide about the body?
Maybe just blind panic, if the murder had not been planned in advance. Miles could
imagine someone who was not a spacer shoving a body out an airlock, and only then
realizing what poor concealment it really was. That didn't exactly jibe with a
subsequent swift and handy outside pickup, though. And no quaddie qualified as not-a-
spacer.
He sighed. This is not getting us much forwarder. Let's go talk to my idiots.
CHAPTER FIVE
Graf Station Security Post Three lay on the border between the free fall and the grav
sides of the station, with access to both. Construction quaddies in yellow shirts and
shorts, and a few legged downsiders similarly dressed, were at work on repairs around
the main grav-side entrance. Miles, Ekaterin, and Roic were escorted through by Bel and
one of their quaddie outriders, the other having been left on dour guard at the
Kestrel's docking hatch. The workers turned their heads to stare, frowning, as the
Barrayarans passed.
They wound via a couple of corridors down one level, where they found the control
booth at the portal to the grav-side detention block. A quaddie and a downsider were
just collaborating on raising a new, possibly more plasma-fire-resistant, window into
place in its frame; beyond, another yellow-clad quaddie could be seen putting the
finishing touches on a monitor array while a uniformed quaddie in a Security floater,
upper arms crossed, watched glumly.
In the tool-cluttered staging area in front of the booth they found Sealer Greenlaw
and Chief Venn, now supplied with floaters, awaiting them. Venn immediately made sure
to point out to Miles all the repairs completed and still in progress, in detail, with
approximate costs, with a chronicle appended of all the quaddies who had been injured
in the imbroglio, including names, ranks, prognoses, and the distress suffered by their
family members. Miles made acknowledging yet neutral noises, and went into a short
counter-riff on the missing Solian and the sinister testimony of the blood on the
loading bay deck, with a brief dissertation on the logistics of his ejected body being
spirited away by a possible outboard coconspirator. This last gave Venn pause, at least
temporarily; his face twinged, like a man in stomach pain.
While Venn went to arrange Miles's entry to the cellblock with the guard in the
control booth, Miles glanced at Ekaterin, and a little doubtfully around the less-than-
inviting staging area. Do you want to wait here, or sit in?
Do you want me to sit in? she asked, with a lack of enthusiasm in her voice that
even Miles could sense. Not that you don't draft anyone in sight, as needed, but
surely I'm not needed for this.
Well, perhaps not. But it looks like it might be a trifle boring out here.
I don't have quite your allergic response to boredom, love, but to tell the truth, I
was rather hoping I could get more of a look around the station while you were tied up
here this afternoon. The glimpses we saw on the way in seemed quite enticing.
But I want Roic. He hesitated, the security triage problem turning in his head.
She glanced across in friendly speculation at Bel, listening. I admit I would be
glad for a guide, but do you really think I need a bodyguard here?
Insult seemed possible, though only from quaddies who knew whose wife she was, but
assault, Miles had to admit, seemed unlikely. No, but...
Bel smiled cordially back at her. If you would accept my escort, Lady Vorkosigan, I
would be pleased to show you around Graf Station while the Lord Auditor conducts his
interviews.
Ekaterin brightened still further. I would like that very much, yes, thank you,
Portmaster Thorne. If things go well, as we must hope they do, we might not be here
very long. I feel I should seize my opportunities.
Bel was more experienced than Roic in everything from hand-to-hand combat to fleet
maneuvers, and vastly less likely to blunder into trouble here through ignorance.
Well... all right, why not? Enjoy. Miles touched his wrist com. I'll call when I'm
about finished. Maybe you can go shopping. He waved them off, smiling. Just don't
haul home any severed heads. He glanced up to find Venn and Greenlaw both staring at
him in some dismay. Ah - family joke, he explained weakly. The dismay did not abate.
Ekaterin smiled back, and sailed out on Bel's cheerfully proffered arm. It occurred
to Miles belatedly that Bel was notably universal in its sexual tastes, and that maybe
he ought to have warned Ekaterin that she needn't be especially delicate in redirecting
Bel's attentions, should any be offered. But surely Bel wouldn't... on the other hand,
maybe they'd just take turns trying things on.
Reluctantly, he turned back to business.
The Barrayaran prisoners were stacked three to a cell in chambers meant for two
occupants, a circumstance about which Venn half complained, half apologized. Security
Post Three, he gave Miles to understand, had been unprepared for such an abnormal
influx of recalcitrant downsiders. Miles murmured comprehension, if not necessarily
sympathy, and refrained from observing that the quaddies' cells were larger than the
sleeping cabins housing four aboard the Prince Xav.
Miles began by interviewing Brun's squad commander. The man was shocked to find his
exploits receiving the high-powered attention of an actual Imperial Auditor, and as a
result defaulted to a thick MilSpeak in his account of events. The picture Miles
unpacked behind such formal phrases as penetrated the perimeter and enemy forces
amassed still made him wince. But allowing for the changed point of view, his testimony
did not materially contradict the Stationer version of the events. Alas.
Miles spot-checked the squad commander's story with another cell full of fellows, who
added details unfortunate but not surprising. As the squad had been attached to the
Prince Xav, none of them were personally acquainted with Lieutenant Solian, posted on
the Idris.
Miles emerged and tested an argument on the hovering Sealer Greenlaw. It is quite
improper for you to continue holding these men. The orders they were following, though
perhaps ill thought out, were not in fact illegal in Barrayaran military definition. If
their orders had been to plunder, rape, or massacre civilian quaddies, they would have
been under a legal military obligation to resist them, but in fact they were
specifically ordered not to kill. If they had disobeyed Brun, they could have faced
court-martial. It's double jeopardy, and seriously unfair to them.
I will consider this contention, said Greenlaw dryly, with the For about ten
seconds, after which I shall toss it out the nearest airlock hanging unspoken.
And, looking ahead, added Miles, you can't wish to be stuck housing these men
indefinitely. Surely it would be preferable for us to take them, he just managed to
convert off your hands to, with us when we leave.
Greenlaw looked even dryer; Venn grunted disconsolately. Miles gathered Venn would be
just as glad for the Imperial Auditor to take them away now, except for the politics of
the larger situation. Miles didn't push the point, but stored it up for near-future
reference. He entertained a brief, wistful fantasy of trading Brun for his men, and
leaving Brun here, to the net benefit of the Emperor's Service, but did not air it
aloud.
His interview with the two service security men who'd initially been sent to pick up
Corbeau was, in its way, even more wince-worthy. They were sufficiently intimidated by
his Auditor's rank to give full and honest, if muttered, accounts of the contretemps.
But such infelicitous phraseology as I wasn't trying to break her arm, I was trying to
bounce the mutie bitch off the wall, and All those clutching hands gave me the creeps -
it was like having snakes wrapping around my boot, convinced Miles that here were two
men he wouldn't care to have testify in public, at least not in public in Quaddiespace.
However, he was able to establish the significant point that at the time of the clash
they, too, had been under the impression that Lieutenant Solian had just been murdered
by an unknown quaddie.
He emerged from this interrogation to say to Venn, I think I'd better speak
privately to Ensign Corbeau. Can you find us a space?
Corbeau already has his own cell, Venn informed him coolly. As a result of his
being threatened by his comrades.
Ah. Take me to him, then, if you please.
* * *
The cell door slid aside to reveal a tall young man sitting silently on a bunk,
elbows on knees, his face propped in his hands. The metallic contact circles of a jump
pilot's neural implant gleamed at his temples and mid-forehead, and Miles mentally
tripled the young officer's recent training costs to the Imperium. He looked up and
frowned in confusion at Miles.
He was a typical enough Barrayaran: dark haired, brown eyed, with an olive complexion
made pale by his months in space. His regular features reminded Miles a bit of his
cousin Ivan at the same feckless age. An extensive bruise around one eye was fading,
turning yellowish green. His uniform shirt was open at the throat, sleeves rolled up.
Some paling, irregular pink scars zigzagged over his exposed skin, marking him as a
victim of the Sergyaran worm plague of some years back; he had evidently grown up, or
at least been resident, on Barrayar's new colony planet during that difficult period
before the oral vermicides had been perfected.
Venn said, Ensign Corbeau, this is the Barrayaran Imperial Auditor, Lord Vorkosigan.
Your emperor sent him out as the official diplomatic envoy to represent your side in
negotiations with the Union. He wishes to interview you.
Corbeau's lips parted in alarm, and he scrambled to his feet and bobbed his head
nervously at Miles. It made their height differential rather spring to the eye, and
Corbeau's brow wrinkled in increased confusion.
Venn added, not so much kindly as punctiliously, Due to the charges lodged against
you, as well as your petition for asylum still pending for review, Sealer Greenlaw will
not permit him to remove you from our custody at this time.
Corbeau exhaled a little, but still stared at Miles with the expression of a man
introduced to a poisonous snake.
Venn added, a sardonic edge in his voice, He has undertaken not to order you to
shoot yourself, either.
Thank you, Chief Venn, said Miles. I'll take it from here, if you don't mind.
Venn took the hint, and his leave. Roic took up his silent guard stance by the cell
door, which hissed closed.
Miles gestured at the bunk. Sit down, Ensign. He seated himself on the bunk across
from the young man and cocked his head in brief study as Corbeau refolded himself.
Stop hyperventilating, he added.
Corbeau gulped, and managed a wary, My lord.
Miles laced his fingers together. Sergyaran, are you?
Corbeau glanced down at his arms and made an abortive move to roll down his sleeves.
Not born there, my lord. My parents emigrated when I was about five years old. He
glanced at the silent Roic in his brown-and-silver uniform, and added, Are you -
then swallowed whatever he'd been about to say.
Miles could fill in the blank. I'm Viceroy and Vicereine Vorkosigan's son, yes. One
of them.
Corbeau managed an unvoiced Oh. His look of suppressed terror did not diminish.
I have just interviewed the two fleet patrollers sent to retrieve you from your
station leave. In a moment, I'd like to hear your version of that event. But first -
did you know Lieutenant Solian, the Komarran fleet security officer aboard the Idris?
The pilot's thoughts were so clearly focused on his own affairs that it took him a
moment to parse this. I met him once or twice at some of our prior stops, my lord. I
can't say as I knew him. I never went aboard the Idris.
Do you have any thoughts or theories about his disappearance?
Not... not really.
Captain Brun thinks he might have deserted.
Corbeau grimaced. Brun would.
Why Brun especially?
Corbeau's lips moved, halted; he looked still more miserable. It would not be
appropriate for me to criticize my superiors, my lord, or to comment on their personal
opinions.
Brun is prejudiced against Komarrans.
I didn't say that!
That was my observation, Ensign.
Oh.
Well, let's leave that for the moment. Back to your troubles. Why didn't you answer
your wrist com recall order?
Corbeau touched his bare left wrist; the Barrayarans' com links had all been
confiscated by their quaddie captors. I'd taken it off and left it in another room. I
must have slept through the beep. The first I knew of the recall order was when those
two, two... He struggled for a moment, then continued bitterly, thugs came pounding
at Garnet Five's door. They just pushed her aside -
Did they identify themselves properly, and relay your orders clearly?
Corbeau paused, his glance at Miles sharpening. I admit, my lord, he said slowly,
Sergeant Touchev announcing, 'All right, mutie-lover, this show's over,' did not
exactly convey 'Admiral Vorpatril has ordered all Barrayaran personnel back to their
ships' to my mind. Not right away, anyway. I'd just woken up, you see.
Did they identify themselves?
Not - not verbally.
Show any ID?
Well... they were in uniform, with their patrol armbands.
Did you recognize them as fleet security, or did you think this was a private visit
- a couple of comrades taking out their racial offense on their own time?
It... um... well - the two aren't exactly mutually exclusive, my lord. In my
experience.
The kid has that one straight, unfortunately. Miles took a breath. Ah.
I was slow, still half asleep. When they shoved me around, Garnet Five thought they
were attacking me. I wish she hadn't tried to... I didn't slug Touchev till he dumped
her out of her float chair. At that point... everything sort of went down the
disposer. Corbeau glowered at his feet, encased in prison-issue friction slippers.
Miles sat back. Throw this boy a line. He's drowning. He said mildly, You know, your
career is not necessarily cooked yet. You aren't, technically, AWOL as long as you are
involuntarily confined by the Graf Station authorities, any more than Brun's strike
patrol here is. For a little while yet, you're in a legal limbo. Your jump pilot's
training and surgery would make you a costly loss, from command's viewpoint. If you
make the right moves, you could still get out of this pretty cleanly.
Corbeau's face screwed up. I don't... He trailed off.
Miles made an encouraging noise.
Corbeau burst out, I don't want my damned career any more. I don't want to be part
of - he waved around inarticulately - this. This... idiocy.
Suppressing a certain sympathy, Miles asked, What's your present status - how far
along are you in your enlistment?
I signed up for one of the new five-year hitches, with the option to reenlist or go
to reserve status for the next five. I've been in three years, two still to go.
At age twenty-three, Miles reminded himself, two years still seemed a long time.
Corbeau could be barely more than an apprentice junior pilot at this stage of his
career, although his assignment to the Prince Xav implied a superior rating.
Corbeau shook his head. I see things differently these days, somehow. Attitudes I
used to take for granted, jokes, remarks, just the way things are done - they bother me
now. They grate. People like Sergeant Touchev, Captain Brun - God. Were we always this
awful?
No, said Miles. We used to be much worse. I can personally testify to that one.
Corbeau stared searchingly at him.
But if all the progressive-minded men had opted out then, as you are proposing to do
now, none of the changes I've seen in my lifetime could have happened. We've changed.
We can change some more. Not instantly, no. But if all the decent folks quit and only
the idiots are left to run the show, it won't be good for the future of Barrayar. About
which I do care. It startled him to realize how passionately true that statement had
become, of late. He thought of the two replicators in that guarded room in Vorkosigan
House. I always thought my parents could fix anything. Now it's my turn. Dear God, how
did this happen?
I never imagined a place like this. Corbeau's jerky wave around, Miles construed,
now meant Quaddiespace. I never imagined a woman like Garnet Five. I want to stay
here.
Miles had a bad sense of a desperate young man making permanent decisions for the
sake of temporary stimuli. Graf Station was attractive at first glance, certainly, but
Corbeau had grown up in open country with real gravity, real air - would he adapt, or
would the techno-claustrophobia creep up on him? And the young woman for whom he
proposed to throw his life over, was she worthy, or would Corbeau prove a passing
amusement to her? Or, over time, a bad mistake? Hell, they'd known each other bare
weeks - no one could know, least of all Corbeau and Garnet Five.
I want out, said Corbeau. I can't stand it any more.
Miles tried again. If you withdraw your request for political asylum in the Union
before the quaddies reject it, it might still be folded into your present legal
ambiguity and made to disappear, without further prejudice to your career. If you don't
withdraw it first, the desertion charge will certainly stick, and do you vast damage.
Corbeau looked up and said anxiously, Doesn't this firefight that Brun's patrol had
with the quaddie security here make it in the heat? The Prince Xav's surgeon said it
probably did.
In the heat, desertion in the face of the enemy, was punishable by death in the
Barrayaran military code. Desertion in peacetime was punishable by long stretches of
time in some extremely unpleasant stockades. Either seemed excessively wasteful, all
things considered. I think it would require some pretty convoluted legal twisting to
call this episode a battle. For one thing, defining it so runs directly counter to the
Emperor's stated desire to maintain peaceful relations with this important trade depot.
Still... given a sufficiently hostile court and ham-handed defense counsel... I
shouldn't call court-martial a wise risk, if it can possibly be avoided. Miles rubbed
his lips. Were you drunk, by chance, when Sergeant Touchev came to pick you up?
No!
Hm. Pity. Drunk is a wonderfully safe defense. Not politically or socially radical,
y'see. I don't suppose... ?
Corbeau's mouth tightened in indignation. Suggesting Corbeau lie about his chemical
state would not go over well, Miles sensed. Which gave him a higher opinion of the
young officer, true. But it didn't make Miles's life any easier.
I still want out, Corbeau repeated stubbornly.
The quaddies don't much like Barrayarans this week, I'm afraid. Relying on them
granting your asylum to pluck you out of your dilemma seems to me to be a grave
mistake. There must be half a dozen better ways to solve your problems, if you'd open
your mind to wider tactical possibilities. In fact, almost any other way would be
better than this.
Corbeau shook his head, mute.
Well, think about it, Ensign. I suspect the situation will remain murky until I find
out what happened to Lieutenant Solian. At that point, I hope to unravel this tangle
quickly, and the chance to change your mind about really bad ideas could run out
abruptly.
He climbed wearily to his feet. Corbeau, after a moment of uncertainty, rose and
saluted. Miles returned an acknowledging nod and motioned to Roic, who spoke into the
cell's intercom and obtained their release.
He exited, frowning thoughtfully, to encounter the hovering Chief Venn. I want
Solian, dammit, Miles said grouchily to him. This remarkable evaporation of his
doesn't reflect any better on the competence of your security than it does on ours,
y'know.
Venn glowered at him. But he didn't contradict this remark.
Miles sighed and raised his wrist com to his lips to call Ekaterin.
* * *
She insisted on having him rendezvous with her back at the Kestrel. Miles was just as
glad for the excuse to escape the depressing atmosphere of Security Post Three. He
couldn't call it moral ambiguity, alas. Worse, he couldn't call it legal ambiguity. It
was quite clear which side was in the right; it just wasn't his side, dammit.
He found her in their little cabin, just hanging his brown-and-silver House uniform
out on a hook. She turned and embraced him, and he tilted his head back for a long,
luxurious kiss.
So, how did your venture into Quaddiespace with Bel go? he inquired, when he had
breath to spare again.
Very well, I thought. If Bel ever wants a change from being a portmaster, I believe
it could go into Union public relations. I think I saw all the best parts of Graf
Station that could be squeezed into the time we had. Splendid views, good food, history
- Bel took me deep down into the free fall sector to see the preserved parts of the old
jumpship that first brought the quaddies to this system. They have it set up as a
museum - when we arrived it was full of quaddie schoolchildren, bouncing off the walls.
Literally. They were incredibly cute. It almost reminded me of a Barrayaran ancestor-
shrine. She released him and indicated a large box decorated with shiny, colorful
pictures and schematics, occupying half the lower bunk. I found this for Nikki in the
museum shop. It's a scale model of the D-620 Superjumper, modified with the orbital
habitat configured on, that the quaddies' forebears escaped in.
Oh, he'll like that. Nikki, at eleven, had not yet outgrown a passion for
spaceships of every kind, but especially jumpships. It was still too early to guess
whether the enthusiasm would turn into an adult avocation or fall by the wayside, but
it certainly hadn't flagged yet. Miles peered more closely at the picture. The ancient
D-620 had been an amazingly ungainly looking beast of a ship, appearing in this
artist's rendition rather like an enormous metallic squid clutching a collection of
cans. Large-scale replica, I take it?
She glanced rather doubtfully at it. Not especially. It was a huge ship. I wonder if
I should have chosen the smaller version? But it didn't come apart like this one. Now
that I have it back here I'm not quite sure where to put it.
Ekaterin in maternal mode was quite capable of sharing her bunk with the thing all
the way home, for Nikki's sake. Lieutenant Smolyani will be happy to find a place to
stow it.
Really?
You have my personal guarantee. He favored her with a half-bow, hand over his
heart. He wondered briefly if he ought to snag a couple more for little Aral Alexander
and Helen Natalia while they were here, but the conversation with Ekaterin about age-
appropriate toys, several times repeated during their sojourn on Earth, probably did
not need another rehearsal. What did you and Bel find to talk about?
She smirked. You, mostly.
Belated panic came out as nothing more self-incriminating than a brightly inquiring,
Oh?
Bel was wildly curious as to how we'd met, and obviously racking its brains to
figure out how to ask without being rude. I took pity and told a little about meeting
you on Komarr, and after. With all the classified parts left out, our courtship sounds
awfully odd, do you know?
He acknowledged this with a rueful shrug. I've noticed. Can't be helped.
Is it really true that the first time you met, you shot Bel with a stunner?
The curiosity hadn't all run one way, evidently. Well, yes. It's a long story. From
a long time ago.
Her blue eyes crinkled with amusement. So I understand. You were an absolute lunatic
when you were younger, by all accounts. I'm not sure, if I'd met you back then, whether
I'd have been impressed, or horrified.
Miles thought it over. I'm not sure, either.
Her lips curled up again, and she stepped around him to lift a garment bag from the
bunk. She drew from it a heavy fall of fabric in a blue-gray hue matching her eyes. It
resolved itself into a jumpsuit of some swinging velvety stuff gathered to long,
buttoned cuffs at the wrists and ankles, which gave the trouser legs a subtly sleeve-
like look. She held it up to herself.
That's new, he said approvingly.
Yes, I can be both fashionable in gravity and demure in free fall. She laid the
garment back down and stroked its silky nap.
I take it Bel blocked any unpleasantness due to your being Barrayaran, when you two
were out and about?
She straightened. Well, I didn't have any problems. Bel was accosted by one odd-
looking fellow - he had the longest, narrowest hands and feet. Something funny about
his chest, too, rather oversized. I wondered if he was genetically engineered for
anything special, or if it was some sort of surgical modification. I suppose one meets
all kinds, out here on the edge of the Nexus. He badgered Bel to tell how soon the
passengers were to be let back aboard, and said there was a rumor someone had been
allowed to take off their cargo, but Bel assured him - firmly! - that no one had been
let on the ships since they were impounded. One of the passengers from the Rudra,
worrying about his goods, I gather. He implied the seized cargoes were subject to
rifling and theft by the quaddie dockhands, which didn't go over too well with Bel.
I can imagine.
Then he wanted to know what you were doing, and how the Barrayarans were going to
respond. Naturally, Bel didn't say who I was. Bel said if he wanted to know what
Barrayarans were doing, he'd do better to ask one directly, and to get in line to make
an appointment with you through Sealer Greenlaw like everyone else. The fellow wasn't
too happy, but Bel threatened to have him escorted back to his hostel by Station
Security and confined there if he didn't give over pestering, so he shut up and went
scurrying to find Greenlaw.
Good for Bel. He sighed, and hitched his tight shoulders. I suppose I'd better
deal with Greenlaw again next.
No, you shouldn't, Ekaterin said firmly. You've done nothing but talk with
committees of upset people since the first thing this morning. The answer, I expect, is
no. The question is, did you ever stop to eat lunch, or take any sort of break?
Um... well, no. How did you guess?
She merely smiled. Then the next item on your schedule, my Lord Auditor, is a nice
dinner with your wife and your old friends. Bel and Nicol are taking us out. And after
that, we're going to the quaddie ballet.
We are?
Yes.
Why? I mean, I have to eat sometime, I suppose, but my wandering off in the middle
of the case to, um, disport myself, won't thrill anyone who's waiting on me to solve
this mess. Starting with Admiral Vorpatril and his staff, I daresay.
It will thrill the quaddies. They're vastly proud of the Minchenko Ballet, and being
seen to show an interest in their culture can do you nothing but good with them. The
troupe only performs once or twice a week, depending on the passenger traffic in port
and the season - do they have seasons here? time of year, anyway - so we might not get
another chance. Her smile grew sly. It was a sold-out show, but Bel had Garnet Five
pull strings and get us a box. She'll be joining us there.
Miles blinked. She wants to pitch her case to me about Corbeau, does she?
That's what I'd guess. At his dubiously wrinkled nose, she added, I found out more
about her today. She's a famous person on Graf Station, a local celebrity. The
Barrayaran patrol's assault on her was news; because she's a performing artist,
breaking her arm like that has put her out of work for a time, as well as being an
awful thing in its own right - it was extra culturally offensive, in quaddie eyes.
Oh, terrific. Miles rubbed the bridge of his nose. It wasn't just his imagination;
he did have a headache.
Yes. So the sight of Garnet Five at the ballet, chatting cordially with the
Barrayaran envoy, all forgiven and amicable, is worth what to you, in propaganda
points?
Ah ha! He hesitated. As long as she doesn't end up flouncing out of my presence in
a public rage because I can't promise her anything yet about Corbeau. Tricky situation,
that one, and the boy's not being as smart as he could about it.
She's apparently a person of strong emotions, but not stupid, or so I gather from
Bel. I don't think Bel would have coaxed me to let it arrange this in order to engineer
a public disaster... but perhaps you have reason to think otherwise?
No...
Anyway, I'm sure you'll be able to handle Garnet Five. Just be your usual charming
self.
Ekaterin's vision of him, he reminded himself, was not exactly objective. Thank God.
I've been trying to charm quaddies all day, with no noticeable success.
If you make it plain you like people, it's hard for them to resist liking you back.
And Nicol will be playing in the orchestra tonight.
Oh. He perked up. That will be worth hearing. Ekaterin was shrewdly observant; he
had no doubt she had spent the afternoon picking up cultural vibrations that went well
beyond local fashions. The quaddie ballet it was. Will you wear your fancy new
outfit?
That's why I bought it. We honor the artists by dressing up for them. Now, skin back
into your House uniform. Bel will be along to collect us soon.
I'd better stick to my dull grays. I have a feeling that parading Barrayaran
uniforms in front of the quaddies just now is a bad idea, diplomatically speaking.
In Security Post Three, probably. But there's no point in being seen enjoying their
art if we just look like any other anonymous downsiders. Tonight, I think we should
both look as Barrayaran as possible.
His being seen with Ekaterin was good for a few points, too, he rather fancied,
although not so much propaganda as pure swaggering one-upsmanship. He tapped his
trouser seam, where no sword hung. Right.
CHAPTER SIX
Bel arrived promptly at the Kestrel's hatch, having changed from its staid work
uniform into a startling but cheerful orange doublet with glinting, star-decorated blue
sleeves, slashed trousers bloused into cuffs at the knee, and color-coordinated
midnight-blue hose and friction boots. Variations of the style seemed to be the local
high fashion for both males and females, whether with or without legs, judging by
Greenlaw's less blinding outfit.
The herm conducted them to a hushed and serene restaurant on the grav side of the
station with the usual transparent window-wall overlooking station and starscape. An
occasional tug or pod zipped silently past outside, adding interest to the scene.
Despite the gravitation, which at least kept food on open plates, the place bowed to
quaddie architectural ideals by having tables set on their own private pillars at
varying heights, using all three dimensions of the room. Servers flitted back and forth
and up and down in floaters. The design pleased everyone but Roic, who cranked his neck
around in dismay, watching for trouble in 3-D. But Bel, ever thoughtful, as well as
trained in security protocols, had provided Roic with his own perch above theirs, with
an overview of the whole room; Roic mounted to his eyrie looking more reconciled.
Nicol was waiting for them at their table, which commanded a superior view out the
window-wall. Her garments ran to form-fitting black knits and filmy rainbow scarves;
otherwise, her appearance was not much changed from when Miles had first met her so
many years and wormhole jumps ago. She was still slim, graceful of movement even in her
floater, with pure ivory skin and short-clipped ebony hair, and her eyes still danced.
She and Ekaterin regarded each other with great interest, and fell at once into
conversation with very little prompting from Bel or Miles.
The talk ranged widely as exquisite food appeared in a smooth stream, presented by
the place's well-trained and unobtrusive staff. Music, gardening, and station bio-
recycling techniques led to discussion of quaddie population dynamics and the methods -
technical, economic, and political - for seeding new habitats in the growing necklace
along the asteroid belt. Only old war stories, by a silent, mutual agreement, failed to
trickle into the conversational flow.
When Bel guided Ekaterin off to the lavatory between the last course and dessert,
Nicol watched her out of earshot, then leaned over and murmured to Miles, I am glad
for you, Admiral Naismith.
He touched a finger briefly to his lips. Be glad for Miles Vorkosigan. I certainly
am. He hesitated, then asked, Should I be equally glad for Bel?
Her smile crimped a little. Only Bel knows. I'm done with traveling the Nexus. I've
found my place, home at last. Bel seems happy here too, most of the time, but - well,
Bel is a downsider. They get itchy feet, I'm told. Bel talks about making a commitment
to the Union, yet... somehow, never gets around to applying.
I'm sure Bel's interested in doing so, Miles offered.
She shrugged, and drained the last of her lemon drink; anticipating her performance
later, she had forgone the wine. Maybe the secret of happiness is to live for today,
to never look ahead. Or maybe that's just a habit of mind Bel got into in its former
life. All that risk, all that danger - it takes a certain sort to thrive on it. I'm not
sure Bel can change its nature, or how much it would hurt to try. Maybe too much.
Mm, said Miles. I can't offer them a false oath, or divided loyalties, Bel had
said. Even Nicol, apparently, was not aware of Bel's second source of income - and
hazard. I do note, Bel could have found a portmaster's berth in quite a few places. It
traveled a very long way to get one here, instead.
Nicol's smile softened. That's so. She added, Do you know, when Bel arrived at
Graf Station, it still had that Betan dollar I'd paid you on Jackson's Whole tucked in
its wallet?
Miles managed to stop the logical query, Are you sure it was the same one? on his
lips before it fell out of his mouth leaving room for his downsider foot. One Betan
dollar looked like any other. If Bel had claimed it for the same one, when making
Nicol's reacquaintance, who was Miles to suggest otherwise? Not that much of a
spoilsport, for damn sure.
After dinner they made their way under Bel and Nicol's guidance to the bubble-car
system, its arteries of transit recently retrofitted into the three-dimensional maze
Graf Station had grown to be. Nicol left her floater in a common rack on the passenger
platform. It took their car about ten minutes to wend through the branching tubes to
their destination; Miles's stomach lifted when they crossed into the free fall side,
and he made haste to slip his antinausea meds from his pocket, swallow one, and offer
them discreetly to Ekaterin and Roic.
The entrance to the Madame Minchenko Memorial Auditorium was neither large nor
imposing, being just one of several accessible airseal doorways on different levels of
the station here. Nicol kissed Bel and flitted off. No crowds yet clogged the
cylindrical corridors, as they'd come early to give Nicol time to make her way
backstage and change. Miles was therefore unprepared for the vast chamber into which
they floated.
It was an enormous sphere. Nearly a third of its interior surface was a round,
transparent window-wall, the universe itself turned into backdrop, thick with bright
stars on this shaded side of the station. Ekaterin grabbed his hand rather abruptly,
and Roic made a small choked noise. Miles had the sense of having swum inside a giant
beehive, for the rest of the wall was lined with hexagonal cells like a silver-edged
honeycomb filled with rainbow jewels. As they floated out toward the middle the cells
resolved into velvet-lined boxes for the audience, varying in size from cozy niches for
one patron to units spacious enough for parties of ten, if the ten were quaddies, not
trailing long useless legs. Other sectors, interspersed, seemed to be dark, flat panels
of various shapes, or to contain other exits. He tried at first to impose a sense of up
and down upon the space, but then he blinked, and the chamber seemed to rotate around
the window, and then he wasn't sure if he was looking up, down, or sideways through it.
Down was a particularly disturbing mental construction, as it gave the dizzy impression
of falling into a vast well of stars.
A quaddie usher wearing an air-jet belt took them in tow, after they had gawked their
fill, and steered them gently wall-ward to their assigned hexagon. It was lined with
some dark, soft, sound-baffling padding and convenient handgrips, and included its own
lighting, the colored jewels seen from afar.
A dark shape and a gleam of motion in their generously sized box resolved itself, as
they approached, as a quaddie woman. She was slim and long-limbed, with fine white-
blond hair cut finger length and waving in an aureole around her head. It made Miles
think of mermaids of legend. Cheekbones to inspire men to duel with each other, or
perhaps scribble bad poetry, or drown in drink. Or worse, desert their brigade. She was
clothed in close-fitting black velvet with a little white lace ruff at her throat. The
cuff on the lower right elbow of her softly pleated black velvet pants... sleeve, Miles
decided, not leg, had been left unfastened to make room for a medical air-filled arm
immobilizer of a sort painfully familiar to Miles from his fragile-boned youth. It was
the only stiff, ungraceful thing about her, a crude insult to the rest of the ensemble.
No mistaking her for anyone other than Garnet Five, but he waited for Bel to
introduce them all properly, which Bel promptly did. They shook hands all around; Miles
found her grip athlete-firm.
Thank you for obtaining these - seats did not apply, this space for us on such
short notice, Miles said, releasing her slim upper hand. I understand we are to be
privileged to view some very fine work. Work was a word with extra resonance in
Quaddiespace, he had already gathered, like honor on Barrayar.
My pleasure, Lord Vorkosigan. Her voice was melodious; her expression seemed cool,
almost ironic, but an underlying anxiety glowed in her leaf-green eyes.
Miles opened his hand to indicate her broken lower right arm. May I convey my
personal apologies for the poor behavior of some of our men. They will be disciplined
for it, when we get them back. Please do not judge all Barrayarans by our worst
examples. Well, she can't; we actually don't ship out our worst, Gregor be praised.
She smiled briefly. I do not, for I've also met your best. The urgency in her eyes
tinged her voice. Dmitri - what will happen to him?
Well, that depends to a great extent on Dmitri. Pitches, Miles suddenly realized,
could run two ways, here. It could range, when he is released and returns to duty,
from a minor black mark on his record - he wasn't supposed to remove his wrist com
while on station leave, you know, for just the sort of reason you unfortunately
discovered - to a very serious charge of attempted desertion, if he fails to withdraw
his request for political asylum before it is denied.
Her jaw set a trifle. Perhaps it won't be denied.
Even if granted, the long-term consequences could be more complex than you perhaps
anticipate. He would at that point be plainly guilty of desertion. He would be
permanently exiled from his home, never able to return or see his family. Barrayar
might seem a world well lost now, in the first flush of... emotion, but I think - I'm
sure - it's something he could come to deeply regret later. He thought of melancholy
Baz Jesek, exiled for years over an even more badly managed conflict. There are other,
if less speedy, ways Ensign Corbeau might yet end up back here, if his desire to do so
is true will and not temporary whim. It would take a little more time, but be
infinitely less damaging - he's playing for the rest of his life with this, after all.
She frowned. Won't the Barrayaran military have him shot, or horribly butchered, or
- or assassinated?
We are not at war with the Union. Yet, anyway. It would take more heroic blundering
than this to make that happen, but he ought not to underestimate his fellow
Barrayarans, he supposed. And he didn't think Corbeau was politically important enough
to assassinate. So let's try to make sure he doesn't become so, eh? He wouldn't be
executed. But twenty years in jail is hardly better, from your point of view. You don't
serve him or yourself by encouraging him to this desertion. Let him return to duty,
serve out his hitch, get passage back. If you're both still of the same mind then,
continue your relationship without his unresolved legal status poisoning your future
together.
Her expression had grown still more grimly stubborn. He felt horribly like some
stodgy parent lecturing his angst-ridden teenager, but she was no child. He'd have to
ask Bel her age. Her grace and authority of motion might be the results of her dancer's
training. He remembered that they were supposed to be looking cordial, so tried to
soften his words with a belated smile.
She said, We wish to become partners. Permanently.
After only two weeks of acquaintance, are you so sure? He strangled this comment in
his throat as Ekaterin's sideways glance at him put him in mind of just how many days -
or was it hours? - it had taken him to fall in love with her. Granted, the permanently
part had taken longer. I can certainly see why Corbeau would wish that. The reverse
was more puzzling, of course. In both cases. He himself did not find Corbeau lovable -
his strongest emotion so far was a deep desire to whack the ensign on the side of the
head - but this woman clearly didn't see him that way.
Permanently? said Ekaterin doubtfully. But... don't you think you might wish to
have children someday? Or might he?
Garnet Five's expression grew hopeful. We've talked about having children together.
We're both interested.
Um, er, said Miles. Quaddies are not interfertile with downsiders, surely?
Well, one has to make choices, before they go into the replicators, just as a herm
crossing with a monosexual has to choose whether to have the genetics adjusted to
produce a boy or a girl or a herm. Some quaddie-downsider partnerships have quaddie
children, some have downsiders, some have some of each - Bel, show Lord Vorkosigan your
baby pictures!
Miles's head swiveled around. What?
Bel blushed and dug in its trouser pocket. Nicol and I... when we went to the
geneticist for counseling, they ran a projection of all the possible combinations, to
help us choose. The herm held up a holocube and turned it on. Six full-length still
shots of children sprang into being above its hand. They were all frozen in their early
teens, with the sense of adult features just starting to emerge from childhood's
roundness. They had Bel's eyes, Nicol's jawline, hair a brownish black with that
familiar swipe of a forelock. A boy, a girl, and a herm with legs; a boy, a girl, and a
herm quaddie.
Oh, said Ekaterin, reaching for it. How interesting.
The facial features are just an electronic blend of Nicol's and mine, not a genuine
genetic projection, Bel explained, willingly giving the cube to her. For that, they'd
need an actual cell from a real conceptus, which, of course, they can't have till a
real one is made for the genetic modifications.
Ekaterin turned the array back and forth, examining the portraits from all angles.
Miles, looking over her shoulder, told himself firmly that it was probably just as well
that his holovid of the blandly blastular Aral Alexander and Helen Natalia was still in
his luggage back aboard the Kestrel. But maybe later he would have a chance to show Bel
-
Have you two finally decided what you want? asked Garnet Five.
A little quaddie girl, to start. Like Nicol. Bel's face softened, then, abruptly,
recovered its habitual ironic smile. Assuming I take the plunge and apply for my Union
citizenship.
Miles imagined Garnet Five and Dmitri Corbeau with a string of handsome, athletic
quaddie children. Or Bel and Nicol, with a clutch of smart, musical ones. It made his
head spin. Roic, looking quietly boggled, shook his head at Ekaterin's profferment of a
closer examination of the holo-array.
Ah, said Bel. The show's about to start. The herm retrieved the holocube and
switched it off, and plunged it back safely deep in the pocket of its baggy blue knee
breeches, carefully fastening the flap.
The auditorium had filled to capacity while they spoke, the honeycomb of cells now
harboring an attentive crowd including a fair smattering of other downsiders, though
whether Union citizen or galactic visitor Miles could not always tell. No green
Barrayaran uniforms tonight, in any case. The lights dimmed; the hubbub quieted, and a
few last quaddies sped across to their boxes and settled in. A couple of downsiders who
had misjudged their momentum and were stranded in the middle were rescued by the ushers
and towed to their box, earning a quiet snicker from the quaddies who noticed. An
electric tension filled the air, the odd blend of hope and fear that any live
performance bore, with its risk of imperfection, chance of greatness. The lights dimmed
further, till only the blue-white starshine glinted off the chamber's array of now-
crowded cells.
Lights flared, an exuberant fountain of red and orange and gold, and from all sides,
the performers flowed in. Thundered in. Quaddie males, athletic and vastly
enthusiastic, in skin-fitting ship knits made splendid with glitter. Drumming.
I wasn't expecting hand drums. Other free fall performances Miles had seen, whether
dance or gymnastic, had been eerily silent except for the music and sound effects.
Quaddies made their own noise, and still had hands left to play hands-across; the
drummers met in the middle, clasped, gripped, exchanged momentum, turned, and doubled
back in a shifting pattern. Two dozen men in free fall took up perfect station in the
center of the spherical auditorium, their motion so controlled as to permit no sideways
drift as the energy of their spins and duckings, twistings and turnings, flowed through
their bodies one to another and on around again. The air pulsed with the rhythm of
their drumming: drums of all sizes, round, oblong, two-headed; not only played by each
holder, but some batted back and forth among them in an eye-and-ear-stunning cross
between music and juggling, never missing a beat or a blow. The lights danced.
Reflections spattered on the walls, picking out flashes from the boxes of upraised
hands, arms, bright cloth, jewelry, entranced faces.
Then, from another entrance, a dozen female quaddies all in blues and greens geysered
up into the growing, geodesic pattern and joined the dance. All Miles could think was,
Whoever first brought castanets to Quaddiespace has much to answer for. They added a
laughing descant note to the percussive braid of sound: hand drums and castanets, no
other instruments. None needed. The round chamber reverberated, fairly rocked. He stole
a glance sideways; Ekaterin's lips were parted, her eyes wide and shining, drinking in
all this booming splendor without reserve.
Miles considered Barrayaran marching bands. It wasn't enough that humans did
something so difficult as learning to play a musical instrument. Then they had to do it
in groups. While walking around. In complicated patterns. And then they competed with
one another to do it even better. Excellence, this kind of excellence, could never have
any sane economic justification. It had to be done for the honor of one's country, or
one's people, or the glory of God. For the joy of being human.
The piece ran for twenty minutes, until the players were gasping and sweat spun off
them in tiny drops to speed in sparking streaks into the darkness, and still they
whirled and thundered. Miles had to stop himself from hyperventilating in sympathy,
heartbeat synchronized with their rhythms. Then, one last grand blast of joyous noise -
and somehow the shifting net of four-armed men and women resolved itself into two
chains, which flowed away into the exits from which they had emerged a revelation ago.
Darkness again. The silence was like a blow; behind him, Miles heard Roic exhale
reverently, longingly, like a man home from war easing himself into his own bed for the
first time.
The applause - hand-clapping, of course - rocked the room. No one in the Barrayaran
party, Miles thought, had to pretend enthusiasm for quaddie culture now.
The chamber hushed again as the orchestra emerged from four points and filtered into
positions all around the great window. The half-a-hundred quaddies bore a more standard
array of instruments - all acoustic, Ekaterin observed to him in a fascinated whisper.
They spotted Nicol, assisted by two more quaddies who helped manage and secure her
harp, which was nearly the usual shape for a harp, and her double-sided hammer
dulcimer, appearing to be a dull oblong box from this angle. But the piece that
followed included a solo section for her with the dulcimer, her ivory face picked out
in spotlights, and the music that poured forth between her four flashing hands was
anything but dull. Radiantly ethereal; heartbreaking; electrifying.
Bel must have seen this dozens of times, Miles guessed, but the herm was surely as
entranced as any newcomer. It wasn't just a lover's smile that illuminated Bel's eyes.
Yes. You would not be loving her properly if you did not also love her improvident,
lavish, spendthrift excellence. No jealous lover, greedy and selfish, could hoard it
all; it had to be poured forth upon the world, or burst its wellspring. He glanced at
Ekaterin and thought of her glorious gardens, much missed back on Barrayar. I shall not
keep you away from them much longer, love, I promise.
There was a brief pause, while quaddie stagehands arranged a few mysterious poles and
bars sticking in at odd angles around the interior of the sphere. Garnet Five, floating
sideways with respect to Miles, murmured over her shoulder, Coming up is the piece I
usually dance. It's an excerpt from a larger work, Aljean's classic ballet The
Crossing, which tells the story of our people's migration through the Nexus to
Quaddiespace. It's the love duet between Leo and Silver. I dance Silver. I hope my
understudy doesn't muck it up... She trailed off as the overture swelled.
Two figures, a downsider male and a blond quaddie woman, floated in from opposite
sides of the space, picked up momentum with hand-spins around a couple of the poles,
and met in the middle. No drums this time, just sweet, liquid sound from the orchestra.
The Leo character's legs trailed uselessly, and it took Miles a moment to realize that
he was being played by a quaddie dancer with dummy legs. The woman's use of angular
momentum, drawing in or extending various arms as she twirled or spun, was brilliantly
controlled, her changes of trajectory around the various poles precise. Only a few
indrawn breaths and critical mutters from Garnet Five suggested anything less than
perfection to Miles's perceptions. The false-legged fellow was deliberately clumsy,
earning a chuckle from the quaddie audience. Miles shifted uncomfortably, realizing he
was watching a near-parody of how downsiders looked to quaddie eyes. But the woman's
charming gestures of assistance made it seem more endearing than cruel. Bel, grinning,
leaned over to murmur in Miles's ear, It's all right. Leo Graf's supposed to dance
like an engineer. He was.
The love angle of it all was clear enough. Affairs between quaddies and downsiders
apparently had a long and honorable history. It occurred to Miles that certain aspects
of his youth might have been rendered much easier if Barrayar had possessed a
repertoire of romantic tales starring short, crippled heroes, instead of mutie
villains. If this was a fair sample, it was clear that Garnet Five was culturally
primed to play Juliet to her Barrayaran Romeo. But let's not enact a tragedy this time,
eh?
The enchanting piece drew to a climax, and the two dancers saluted the
enthusiastically clapping audience before making their way out. The lights came up;
break time. Performance art was fundamentally constrained, Miles realized, by biology,
in this case the capacity of the human bladder, whether downsider or quaddie.
When they all rendezvoused again in their box, he found Garnet Five explaining
quaddie naming conventions to Ekaterin.
No, it's not a surname, said Garnet Five. When quaddies were first made by the
GalacTech Corporation, there were only one thousand of us. Each had just one given
name, plus a numerical designation, and with so few, each name was unique. When our
ancestors fled to their freedom, they altered what the numbers coded, but kept the
system of single, unique names, tracked in a register. With all of old Earth's
languages to draw on, it was several generations before the system really began to be
strained. The waiting lists for the really popular names were insanely long. So they
voted to allow duplication, but only if the name had a numerical suffix, so we could
always tell every Leo from every other Leo. When you die, your name-number goes back in
the registry to be drawn again.
I have a Leo Ninety-nine in my Docks and Locks crew, said Bel. It's the highest
number I've run across yet. Lower numbers, or none, seem to be preferred.
I've never run across any of the other Garnets, said Garnet Five. There were eight
altogether somewhere in the Union, last time I looked it up.
I'll bet there will be more, said Bel. And it'll be your fault.
Garnet Five laughed. I can wish!
The second half of the show was as impressive as the first. During one of the musical
interludes, Nicol had an exquisite harp part. There were two more large group dances,
one abstract and mathematical, the other narrative, apparently based on a tragic
pressurization disaster of a prior generation. The finale put everyone out in the
middle, for a last vigorous, dizzying whirl, with drummers, castanet players, and
orchestra combining in musical support that could only be described as massive.
It felt to Miles as though the performance ended all too soon, but his chrono told
him four hours had passed in this dream. He bade a grateful but noncommittal farewell
to Garnet Five. As Bel and Nicol escorted the three Barrayarans back to the Kestrel in
the bubble car, he reflected on how cultures told their stories to themselves, and so
defined themselves. Above all, the ballet celebrated the quaddie body. Surely no
downsider could walk out of the quaddie ballet still imagining the four-armed people as
mutated, crippled, or otherwise disadvantaged or inferior. One might even - as Corbeau
had demonstrated - walk out having free-fallen in love.
Not that all crippling damage was visible to the eye. All this exuberant athleticism
reminded him to check his brain chemical levels before bed, and see how soon his next
seizure was likely to be.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Miles woke from a sound sleep to tapping on his cabin door. M'lord? came Roic's
hushed voice. Admiral Vorpatril wants to talk with you. He's on the secured comconsole
in the wardroom.
Whatever inspiration his backbrain might have floated up to his consciousness in the
drowsy interlude between sleep and waking flitted away beyond recall. Miles groaned and
swung out of his bunk. Ekaterin's hand extended from the top bunk, and she peeked over
blearily at him; he touched it and whispered, Go back to sleep, love. She snuffled
agreeably and rolled over.
Miles ran his hands through his hair, grabbed his gray jacket, shrugged it on over
his underwear, and padded out barefoot into the corridor. As the airseal door hissed
closed behind him, he checked his chrono. Since Quaddiespace didn't have to deal with
inconvenient planetary rotations, they kept a single time zone throughout local space,
to which Miles and Ekaterin had supposedly adjusted on the trip in. All right, so it
wasn't the middle of the night, it was early morning.
Miles sat at the wardroom table, straightened his jacket and fastened it to the neck,
and touched the control on his station chair. Admiral Vorpatril's face and torso
appeared over the vid plate. He was awake, dressed, shaved, and had a coffee cup at his
right hand, the rat-bastard.
Vorpatril shook his head, lips tight. How the hell did you know? he demanded.
Miles squinted. I beg your pardon?
I just got back the report on Solian's blood sample from my chief surgeon. It was
manufactured, probably within twenty-four hours of its being spilled on the deck.
Oh. Hell and damnation. That's... unfortunate.
But what does it mean? Is the man still alive somewhere? I'd have sworn he wasn't a
deserter, but maybe Brun was right.
Like the stopped clock, even idiots could be correct sometimes. I'll have to think
about this. It doesn't actually prove if Solian's alive or dead, either way. It doesn't
even, necessarily, prove that he wasn't killed there, just not by getting his throat
cut.
Armsman Roic, God bless and keep him forever, set a cup of steaming coffee down by
Miles's elbow and withdrew to his station by the door. Miles cleared his mouth, if not
his mind, with the first sluicing swallow, and took a second sip to buy a moment to
think.
Vorpatril had a head start on both coffee and calculation. Should we report this to
Chief Venn? Or... not?
Miles made a dubious noise in his throat. His one diplomatic edge, the only thing
that had given him, so to speak, a leg to stand on here, had been the possibility that
Solian had been murdered by an unknown quaddie. This was now rendered even more
problematic, it seemed. The blood had to have been manufactured somewhere. If you have
the right equipment, it's easy, and if you don't, it's impossible. Find all such
equipment on station - or aboard ships in dock - and the place it was done has to be
one of 'em. The place plus the time should lead to the people. Process of elimination.
It's the sort of footwork... Miles hesitated, but went on, that the local police are
better equipped to carry out than we are. If they can be trusted.
Trust the quaddies? Hardly!
What motivation do they have to lie or misdirect us? What, indeed? I have to work
through Greenlaw and Venn. I have no authority on Graf Station in my own right. Well,
there was Bel, but he had to use Bel sparingly or risk the herm's cover.
He wanted the truth. Ruefully, he recognized that he also would prefer to have a
monopoly on it, at least until he had time to figure out how best to play for
Barrayar's interests. Yet if the truth doesn't serve us, what does that say about us,
eh? He rubbed his stubbled chin. It does clearly prove that whatever happened in that
freight bay, whether murder or cover-up, was carefully planned, and not spontaneous.
I'll undertake to speak with Greenlaw and Venn about it. Talking to the quaddies is my
job now, anyway. For my sins, presumably. What god did I piss off this time? Thank
you, Admiral, and thank your fleet surgeon from me for a good job.
Vorpatril gave a grudgingly pleased nod at this acknowledgment, and Miles cut the
com.
Dammit, he muttered querulously, frowning into the blank space. Why didn't anyone
pick up this information on the first pass? It's not my job to be a bloody forensic
pathologist.
I expect, began Armsman Roic, and stopped. Uh... was that a question, m'lord?
Miles swung around in his station chair. A rhetorical one, but do you have an
answer?
Well, m'lord, said Roic diffidently. It's about the size of things here. Graf
Station is a pretty big space habitat, but it's really a kind of a small city, by
Barrayaran standards. And all these spacer types tend to be pretty law-abiding, in
certain ways. All those safety rules. I don't imagine they get many murders here.
How many did you used to get in Hassadar? Graf Station boasted fifty thousand or so
residents; the Vorkosigans' District capital's population was approaching half a
million, these days.
Maybe one or two a month, on average. They didn't come in smoothly. Seems there'd be
a run of 'em, then a quiet period. More in the summer than the winter, except around
Winterfair. Got a lot of multiples then. Most of 'em weren't mysteries, of course. But
even in Hassadar there weren't enough really odd ones to keep our forensics folks in
practice, y'see. Our medical people were part-timers from the District University,
mostly, on call. If we ever got anything really strange, we'd call in one of Lord
Vorbohn's homicide investigators from Vorbarr Sultana. They must get a murder every day
or so up there - all sorts, lots of experience. I'll bet Chief Venn doesn't even have a
forensics department, just some quaddie doctors he taps once in a while. So I wouldn't
expect them to be, um, up to ImpSec standards like what you're used to. M'lord.
That's... an interesting point, Armsman. Thank you. Miles took another swallow of
his coffee. Solian... he said thoughtfully. I don't know enough about Solian yet.
Did he have enemies? Damn it, didn't the man have even one friend? Or a lover? If he
was killed, was it for personal or for professional reasons? It makes a huge
difference.
Miles had glanced through Solian's military record on the inbound leg, and found it
unexceptionable. If the man had ever been to Quaddiespace before, it wasn't since he'd
joined the Imperial service six years previously. He'd had two prior voyages, with
different fleet consortiums and different military escorts; his experiences had
apparently included nothing more exciting than handling an occasional inebriated
crewman or belligerent passenger.
On average, more than half the military personnel on any tour of nexus escort duty
would be new to each other. If Solian had made friends - or enemies - in the weeks
since this fleet had departed Komarr, they almost had to have been on the Idris. If his
disappearance had been closer to the time of the fleet's arrival in Quaddiespace, Miles
would have pegged the professional possibilities to the Idris as well, but the ten days
in dock was plenty of time for a nosy security man to find trouble stationside, too.
He drained his cup and punched up Chief Venn's number on the station-chair console.
The quaddie security commander had also arrived early to work, apparently. His personal
office was evidently on the free fall side of things. He appeared floating sideways to
Miles in the vid view, a coffee bulb clutched in his upper right hand. He murmured a
polite, Good morning, Lord Auditor Vorkosigan, but undercut the verbal courtesy by
not righting himself with respect to Miles, who had to exert a conscious effort to keep
from tilting out of his chair. What can I do for you?
Several things, but first, a question. When was the last murder on Graf Station?
Venn's brows twitched. There was one about seven years ago.
And, ah, before that?
Three years before, I believe.
A veritable crime wave. Did you have charge of those investigations?
Well, they were before my time - I became security chief for Graf Station about five
years back. But there wasn't that much to investigate. Both suspects were downsider
transients - one killed another downsider, the other murdered a quaddie he'd got into
some stupid dispute over a payment with. Guilt confirmed by witnesses and fast-penta
interrogation. It's almost always downsiders in these affairs, I notice.
Have you ever investigated a mysterious killing before?
Venn righted himself, apparently in order to frown more effectively at Miles. I and
my people are fully trained in the appropriate procedures, I assure you.
I'm afraid I must reserve judgment on that point, Chief Venn. I have some rather
curious news. I had the Barrayaran fleet surgeon reexamine Solian's blood sample. It
appears that the blood in question was artificially produced, presumably using an
initial specimen or template of Solian's real blood or tissue. You may wish to have
your forensics people - whoever they are - retest your own archived evidence from the
freight bay and confirm this.
Venn's frown deepened. Then... he was a deserter - not murdered after all! No wonder
we couldn't find a body!
You run - you hurry ahead, I believe. I grant you the scenario has grown extremely
murky. My request, then, is that you locate all possible facilities on Graf Station
where such a tissue synthesis could be carried out, and see if there is any record of
such a batch being run off, and who for. Or if it could have been slipped through off
the record, for that matter. I think we can safely assume that whoever had it done,
Solian or some unknown, was keenly interested in concealment. The surgeon reports the
blood likely was generated not much more than a day before it was spilled, but the
inquiry had better be run back to the time the Idris first docked, to be sure.
I... follow your logic, certainly. Venn held his coffee bulb to his mouth and
squeezed, then transferred it absently to his lower left hand. Yes, certainly, he
echoed himself more faintly. I'll see to it myself.
Miles felt satisfied that he'd rocked Venn off-balance to just the right degree to
embarrass him into effective action, yet not freeze him into defensiveness. Thank
you.
Venn added, I believe Sealer Greenlaw wished to speak with you this morning, also,
Lord Vorkosigan.
Very well. You may transfer my call to her, if you please.
Greenlaw was a morning person, it appeared, or else had drunk her coffee earlier. She
appeared in the holovid dressed in a different elaborate doublet, stern, and fully
awake. Perhaps more by diplomatic habit than any desire to please, she twitched herself
around right-side-up to Miles.
Good morning, Lord Auditor Vorkosigan. In response to their petitions, I have
arranged you an appointment with the Komarran fleet's stranded passengers at ten-
hundred. You may meet with them to answer their questions at the larger of the two
hostels where they are presently housed. Portmaster Thorne will meet you at your ship
and conduct you there.
Miles's head jerked back at this cavalier arrangement of his time and attention. Not
to mention blatant pressure move. On the other hand... this delivered him a room full
of suspects, just the people he wished to study. He split the difference between
irritation and eagerness by remarking blandly, Nice of you to let me know. Just what
is it that you imagine I will be able to tell them?
That, I must leave to you. These people came in with you Barrayarans; they are your
responsibility.
Madam, if that were so, they would all be on their way already. There can be no
responsibility without power. It is the Union authorities who have placed them under
this house arrest, and therefore the Union authorities who must free them.
When you finish settling the fines, costs, and charges your people have incurred
here, we will be only too happy to do so.
Miles smiled thinly, and laced his hands together on the tabletop. He wished the only
new card he had to play this morning were less ambiguous. Nevertheless, he repeated to
her the news about Solian's manufactured blood sample, well-larded with complaint about
quaddie Security not having determined this peculiar fact earlier. She bounced it back
instantly, as Venn had, as evidence more supporting of desertion than murder.
Fine, said Miles. Then have Union Security produce the man. A foreign downsider
wandering about in Quaddiespace can't be that hard for a competent police force to
locate. Assuming they're actually trying.
Quaddiespace, she sniffed back, is not a totalitarian polity. As your Lieutenant
Solian may perhaps have observed. Our guarantees of freedom of movement and personal
privacy could well have been what attracted him to separate himself here from his
former comrades.
So why hasn't he asked for asylum like Ensign Corbeau? No. I greatly fear what we
have here is not a missing man, but a missing corpse. The dead cannot cry out for
justice; it is a duty of the living to do so for them. And that is a responsibility of
mine for mine, madam.
They closed the conversation on that note; Miles could only hope he'd made her
morning as aggravating as she'd made his. He cut the com and rubbed the back of his
neck. Gah. That ties me down for the rest of the day, I'll bet. He glanced up at
Roic, whose guard stance by the door had segued into at ease, his shoulders propped
against the wall. Roic.
Roic quickly drew himself upright. My lord?
Have you ever conducted a criminal investigation?
Well... I was just a street guard, mostly. But I got to go along and help the senior
officers on a few fraud and assault cases. And one kidnapping. We got her back alive.
Several missing persons. Oh, and about a dozen murders, though like I said, they
weren't hardly mysteries. And the series of arsons that time that -
Right. Miles waved a hand to stem this gentle tide of reminiscence. I want you to
do the detail work for me on Solian. First, the timetable. I want you to find out every
documented thing the man did. His watch reports, where he was, what he ate, when he
slept - and who with, if anyone - minute by minute, or as nearly as you can come to it,
from the time of his disappearance right on back as far as you can take it. Especially
any movements off the ship, and missing time. And then I want the personal slant - talk
to the crew and captain of the Idris, try to find out anything you can about the
fellow. I take it I don't need to give you the lecture on the difference between fact,
conjecture, and hearsay?
No, m'lord. But...
Vorpatril and Brun will give you full cooperation and access, I promise you. Or if
they don't, let me know. Miles smiled a bit grimly.
It's not that, m'lord. Who'll run your personal security on Graf Station if I'm off
poking around Admiral Vorpatril's fleet?
Miles managed to swallow his airy, I won't need a bodyguard, upon the reflection that
by his own pet theory, a desperate murderer might be floating around, possibly
literally, on the station. I'll have Captain Thorne with me.
Roic looked dubious. I can't approve, m'lord. He's - it's - not even Barrayaran.
What do you really know about, um, the portmaster?
Lots, Miles assured him. Well, I used to, anyway. He placed his hands on the table
and pushed to his feet. Solian, Roic. Find me Solian. Or his trail of breadcrumbs, or
something.
I'll try, m'lord.
* * *
Back in what he was starting to think of as their cabinet, Miles encountered Ekaterin
returning from the shower, dressed again in her red tunic and leggings. They maneuvered
for a kiss, and he said, I've acquired an involuntary appointment. I have to go
stationside almost immediately.
You will remember to put on pants?
He glanced down at his bare legs. Planned to, yeah.
Her eyes danced. You looked abstracted. I thought it would be safer to ask.
He grinned. I wonder how strangely I could behave before the quaddies would say
anything?
Judging by some of the stories my Uncle Vorthys tells me of the Imperial Auditors of
past generations, a lot stranger than that.
No, I'm afraid it would only be our loyal Barrayarans who'd have to bite their
tongues. He captured her hand and rubbed it enticingly. Want to come along with me?
Doing what? she asked, with commendable suspicion.
Telling the trade fleet's galactic passengers I can't do a damned thing for them,
they're stuck till Greenlaw shifts, thank you very much, have a pleasant day.
That sounds... really unrewarding.
That would be my best guess.
A Countess is by law and tradition something of an assistant Count. An Auditor's
wife, however, is not an assistant Auditor, she said in a firm tone, reminiscent to
Miles's ear of her aunt - Professora Vorthys was herself an Auditor's spouse of some
experience. Nicol and Garnet Five made arrangements to take me out this morning and
show me quaddie horticulture. If you don't mind, I think I'll stick to my original
plan. She softened this sensible refusal with another kiss.
A flash of guilt made him grimace. Graf Station is not exactly what we had in mind
for a honeymoon diversion, I'm afraid.
Oh, I'm having a good time. You're the one who has to deal with all the difficult
people. She made a face, and he was reminded again of her tendency to default to
extreme reserve when painfully overwhelmed. He did fancy that it happened less often,
these days. Her growing confidence and ease with the role of Lady Vorkosigan had been
his secret delight to watch develop, this past year and a half. Maybe, if you're free
by lunch, we can rendezvous and you can vent at me, she added, rather in the tone of
one offering a trade of hostages. But not if I have to remind you to chew and
swallow.
Only the carpet. This won a snicker; a good-bye kiss, as he headed off to the
shower, eased his heart in advance. He reflected that while he might feel lucky that
she'd agreed to come with him to Quaddiespace, everyone on Graf Station from Vorpatril
and Greenlaw on down was much luckier.
* * *
The crews of all four Komarran ships now locked into their docking cradles had been
herded into one hostel, and held there under close arrest. The quaddie authorities had
feigned not to charge the passengers, an odd lot of galactic businesspeople who, with
their goods, had joined the convoy for various segments of its route as the most
economical transport going their way. But of course, they could not be left aboard
unmanned vessels, and so perforce had been removed to two other, more luxurious,
hostels.
In theory, the erstwhile passengers were made free of the station with no more
onerous requirement than to sign in and out with a couple of quaddie Security guards -
armed with stunners only, Miles noted in passing - watching the hostel doors. It wasn't
even that the passengers couldn't legally leave Quaddiespace - except that the cargoes
most had been shepherding were still impounded aboard their respective ships. And so
they were held on the principle of the monkey with its hand trapped in the jar of nuts,
unwilling to let go of what they could not withdraw. The luxury of the hostel
translated into another quaddie punishment, since the mandatory stay was being charged
to the Komarran fleet corporation.
The hostel's lobby was faux-grandiose, to Miles's eye, with a high domed ceiling
simulating a morning sky with drifting clouds that probably cycled through sunrise,
sunset, and night with the day-cycle. Miles wondered which planet's constellations were
displayed, or if they could be varied to flatter the transients du jour. The large open
space was circled by a second-story balcony given over to a lounge, restaurant, and bar
where patrons could meet, greet, and eat. In the center an array of drum-shaped fluted
marble pillars, waist-high, supported a long double-curved sheet of thick glass that in
turn held a large and complex live floral display. Where did they grow such flowers on
Graf Station? Was Ekaterin viewing the source of them even now?
In addition to the usual lift tubes, a wide curving staircase led from the lobby down
to the conference level. Bel guided Miles down it to a more utilitarian meeting room in
the level below.
They found the chamber crammed with about eighty irate individuals of what seemed
every race, dress, planetary origin, and gender in the Nexus. Galactic traders with a
keenly honed sense of the value of their time, and no Barrayaran cultural inhibitions
about Imperial Auditors, they unleashed several days of accumulated frustrations upon
Miles the moment he stepped to the front and turned to face them. Fourteen languages
were handled by nineteen different brands of auto-translators, several of which, Miles
decided, must have been purchased at close-out prices from makers going deservedly
belly-up. Not that his answers to their barrage of questions were any special tax on
the translators - what seemed ninety percent of them came up either, I don't know
yet, or Ask Sealer Greenlaw. The fourth iteration of this latter litany was finally
met with a heartrending wail, in chorus, from the back of the room of, But Greenlaw
said to ask you!, except for the translation device that came up a beat later with,
Lawn rule sea-hunter inquiring altitude unit!
Miles did get Bel to quietly point out to him the men who had attempted to bribe the
portmaster into releasing their wares. Then he asked all passengers from the Idris who
had ever met Lieutenant Solian to stay and debrief their experiences to him. This
actually seemed to foster some illusion of Authority Doing Something, and the rest
shuffled out merely grumbling.
An exception was an individual Miles's eye placed, after an uncertain pause, as a
Betan hermaphrodite. Tall for a herm, the age suggested by its silver hair and eyebrows
was belied by its firm posture and fluid movements. If a Barrayaran, Miles would have
pegged the individual as a healthy and athletic sixty - which probably meant it had
achieved its Betan century. A long sarong in a dark, conservative print, a high-necked
shirt and long-sleeved jacket against what a Betan would doubtless interpret as the
station chill, and fine leather sandals completed an expensive-looking ensemble in the
Betan style. The handsome features were aquiline, the eyes dark, liquid, and sharply
observant. Such extraordinary elegance seemed something Miles should remember, but he
could not bring his dim sense of familiarity into focus. Damn cryo-freeze - he couldn't
guess if it was a true memory, smudged as too many had been by the neural traumas of
the revival process, or a false one, even more distorted.
Portmaster Thorne? said the herm in a soft alto.
Yes? Bel too, unsurprisingly, studied a fellow-Betan with special interest. Despite
the herm's dignified age, its beauty drew admiration, and Miles was amused to note
Bel's glance go to the customary Betan earring hanging in its left lobe.
Disappointingly, it was of the style that coded, Romantically attached, not looking.
I'm afraid I have a special problem with my cargo.
Bel's expression returned to bland, preparing no doubt to hear yet another woeful
story, with or without bribes.
I am a passenger on the Idris. I'm transporting several hundred genetically
engineered animal fetuses in uterine replicators, which require periodic servicing. The
servicing is due again. I really cannot put it off much longer. If they are not cared
for, my creatures may be damaged or even die. One long-fingered hand pulled on the
other, nervously. Worse, they are nearing term. I really didn't expect such a long
delay in my travels. If I am held here very much longer, they will have to be decanted
or destroyed, and I will lose all the value of my cargo and of my time.
What kind of animals? Miles asked curiously.
The tall herm glanced down at him. Sheep and goats, mostly. Some other specialty
items.
Mm. I suppose you could threaten to turn them loose on the station, and force the
quaddies to deal with 'em. Several hundred custom-colored baby lambs running around the
loading bays... This earned an extremely dry look from Portmaster Thorne, and Miles
continued smoothly, But I trust it won't come to that.
I'll submit your petition to Boss Watts, said Bel. Your name, honorable herm?
Ker Dubauer.
Bel bowed slightly. Wait here. I'll return shortly.
As Bel moved off to make a vid call in private, Dubauer, smiling faintly, murmured,
Thank you so much for assisting me, Lord Vorkosigan.
No trouble. Brow wrinkling, Miles added, Have we ever met?
No, my lord.
Hm. Oh, well. When you were aboard the Idris, did you encounter Lieutenant Solian?
The poor young male everyone thought had deserted, but now it seems not? I saw him
going about his duties. I never spoke with him at any length, to my regret.
Miles considered imparting his news about the synthetic blood, then decided to hold
that close for a little while. There might yet prove some better, cleverer thing to do
with it than unleash it with the rest of the rumors. Some half dozen other passengers
from the Idris had shuffled forward during this conversation, waiting to volunteer
their own experiences of the missing lieutenant.
The brief interviews were of dubious value. A bold murderer would surely lie, but a
smart one might simply not come forward at all. Three of the passengers were wary and
curt, but dutifully precise. The others were eager and full of theories to share, none
consonant with the blood on the docking bay deck being a plant. Miles wistfully
considered the charms of a wholesale fast-penta interview of every passenger and crew
person aboard the Idris. Another task Venn, or Vorpatril, or both together should have
done already, dammit. Alas, the quaddies had tedious rules about such invasive methods.
These transients on Graf Station were off-limits to the more abrupt Barrayaran
interrogation techniques; and the Barrayaran military personnel, with whose minds Miles
might make free, were much farther down his current list of suspects. The Komarran
civilian crew was a more ambiguous case, Barrayaran subjects now on quaddie - well, not
soil - and under quaddie custody.
While this was going forth, Bel returned to Dubauer, waiting quietly by the side of
the room with its hands folded, and murmured, I can personally escort you aboard the
Idris to service your cargo as soon as the Lord Auditor is finished here.
Miles cut short the last crime-theory enthusiast and sent him on his way. I'm done,
he announced. He glanced at the chrono in his wrist com. Could he catch up with
Ekaterin for lunch? It seemed doubtful, by this hour, but on the other hand, she could
spend unimaginable amounts of time looking at vegetation, so maybe there was still a
chance.
The three exited the conference chamber together and mounted the broad stairs to the
spacious lobby. Neither Miles nor, he supposed, Bel ever entered a room without running
a visual sweep of every possible vantage for aim, a legacy of years of unpleasant
shared learning experiences. Thus it was that they spotted, simultaneously, the figure
on the balcony opposite hoisting a strange oblong box onto the railing. Dubauer
followed his glance, eyes widening in astonishment.
Miles had a flashing impression of dark eyes in a milky face beneath a mop of brass-
blond curls, staring down intently at him. He and Bel, on either side of Dubauer,
reached spontaneously and together for the startled Betan's arms and flung themselves
forward. Bright bursts from the box chattered with a loud, echoing, tapping noise.
Blood spattered from Dubauer's cheek as the herm was yanked along; something like a
swarm of angry bees seemed to pass directly over Miles's head. Then they were, all
three, sliding on their stomachs to cover behind the wide marble drums holding the
flowers. The bees seemed to follow them; pellets of safety glass exploded in all
directions, and chips of marble fountained in a wide spray. A vast vibrato filled the
room, shook the air, the thunderous thrumming noise sliced with screams and cries.
Miles, trying to raise his head for a quick glance, was crushed down again by Bel
diving over the intervening Betan and landing on him in a smothering clutch. He could
only hear the aftermath: more yells, the sudden cessation of the hammering, a heavy
clunk. A woman's voice sobbed and hiccoughed in the startling silence, then was choked
down to a spasmodic gulping. His hand jerked at a soft, cool kiss, but it was only a
few last shredded leaves and flower petals sifting gently down out of the air to settle
all around them.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Miles said in a muffled voice, Bel, will you please get off my head?
There was a brief pause. Then Bel rolled away and, cautiously, sat up, head hunched
into collar. Sorry, said Bel gruffly. Thought for a moment there I was about to lose
you. Again.
Don't apologize. Miles, his heart still racing and his mouth very dry, pushed up
and sat, his back pressed to a now-shorter marble drum. He spread his fingers to touch
the cool synthetic stone of the floor. A little beyond the narrow, irregular arc of
space shielded by the table pillars, dozens of deep gouges scored the pavement.
Something small and bright and brassy rolled past, and Miles's hand reached for it,
then sprang back at its branding heat.
The elderly herm, Dubauer, also sat up, hand going to pat its face where blood
trickled. Miles's glance took quick inventory: no other hits, apparently. He shifted
and drew his Vorkosigan-monogrammed handkerchief from his trouser pocket, folded it,
and silently handed it across to the bleeding Betan. Dubauer swallowed, took it, and
mopped at the minor wound. It held the pad out a moment to stare at its own blood as if
in surprise, then pressed the cloth back to its hairless cheek.
In a way, Miles thought shakily, it was all rather flattering. At least someone
figured he was competent and effective enough to be dangerous. Or maybe I'm onto
something. I wonder what the hell it is?
Bel placed its hands upon the shattered drum top, peered cautiously over, then slowly
pulled itself to its feet. A downsider in the uniform of the hostel staff scurried, a
little bent over, around the ex-centerpiece and asked in a choked voice, Are you
people all right?
I think so, said Bel, glancing around. What was that?
It came from the balcony, sir. The, the person up there dropped it over the side and
fled. The door guard went after him.
Bel didn't bother to correct the gender of the honorific, a sure sign of distraction.
Miles rose too, and nearly passed out. Still hyperventilating, he crunched around their
bulwark through the broken glass pellets, marble chips, half-melted brass slugs, and
flower salad. Bel followed in his path. On the far side of the lobby, the oblong box
lay on its side, notably dented. They both knelt to stare.
Automated hot riveter, said Bel after a moment. He must have disconnected... quite
a few safety devices, to make it do that.
A slight understatement, Miles felt. But it did explain their assailant's uncertain
aim. The device had been designed to throw its slugs with vast precision a matter of
millimeters, not meters. Still... if the would-be assassin had succeeded in framing
Miles's head for even a short burst - he glanced again at the shattered marble - no
cryo-revival ever invented could have brought him back this time.
Ye gods - what if he hadn't missed? What would Ekaterin have done, this far from home
and help, a messily decapitated husband on her hands before her honeymoon trip was even
over, with no immediate support but the inexperienced Roic - If they're shooting at
me, how much danger is she in?
In belated panic, he slapped his wristcom. Roic! Roic, answer me!
It was at least three agonizing seconds before Roic's drawl responded, My lord?
Where are - never mind. Drop whatever you're doing and go at once to Lady
Vorkosigan, and stay with her. Get her back aboard - he clipped off the Kestrel.
Would she be safer there? By now, any number of people knew that was where to look for
Vorkosigans. Maybe aboard the Prince Xav, standing off a good safe distance from the
station, surrounded by troops - Barrayar's finest, God help us all - Just stay with
her, till I call again.
My lord, what's happening?
Someone just tried to rivet me to the wall. No, don't come here, he overrode Roic's
beginning protest. The fellow ran off, and anyway, quaddie security is beginning to
arrive. Two uniformed quaddies in floaters were entering the lobby even as he spoke.
At a hostel employee's gesticulations, one rose smoothly up over the balcony; the other
approached Miles and his party. I have to deal with these people now. I'm all right.
Don't alarm Ekaterin. Don't let her out of your sight. Out.
He glanced up to see Dubauer unbend from examining a rivet-chewed marble drum, face
very strained. The herm, hand still pressed to cheek, was visibly shaken as it walked
over to glance at the riveter. Miles rose smoothly to his feet.
My apologies, honorable herm. I should have warned you never to stand too close to
me.
Dubauer stared at Miles. Its lips parted in momentary bewilderment, then made a small
circle, Oh. I believe you two gentlepersons saved my life. I... I'm afraid I didn't
see anything. Until that thing - what was it? - hit me.
Miles bent and picked up a loose rivet, one of hundreds, now cooled. One of these.
Have you stopped bleeding?
The herm pulled the pad away from its cheek. Yes, I think so.
Here, keep it for a souvenir. He held out the gleaming brass slug. Trade you for
my handkerchief back. Ekaterin had embroidered it by hand, for a present.
Oh - Dubauer folded the pad over the bloodstain. Oh, dear. Is it of value? I'll
have it cleaned, and return it to you.
Not necessary, honorable herm. My batman takes care of such things.
The elderly Betan looked distressed. Oh, no -
Miles ended the argument by reaching over and plucking the fine cloth from the
clutching fingers, and stuffing it back in his pocket. The herm's hand jerked after it,
and fell back. Miles had met diffident people, but never before one who apologized for
bleeding. Dubauer, unused to personal violence on low-crime Beta Colony, was on the
edge of distraught.
A quaddie security patrolwoman hovered anxiously in her floater. What the hell
happened here? she demanded, snapping open a recorder.
Miles gestured to Bel, who took over describing the incident into the recorder. Bel
was as calm, logical, and detailed as at any Dendarii debriefing, which possibly took
the woman more aback than the crowd of witnesses who clustered eagerly around trying to
tell the tale in more excited terms. To Miles's intense relief, no one else had been
hit except for a few minor clips from ricocheting marble chips. The fellow's aim might
have been imperfect, but he apparently hadn't intended a general massacre.
Good for public safety on Graf Station, but not, upon reflection, so good for
Miles.... His children might have been orphaned, just now, before they'd even had a
chance to be born. His will was spot up to date, the size of an academic dissertation
complete with bibliography and footnotes. It suddenly seemed entirely inadequate to the
task.
Was the suspect a downsider or a quaddie? the patrolwoman asked Bel urgently.
Bel shook its head. I couldn't see the lower half of his body below the balcony
rail. I'm not even sure it was male, really.
A downsider transient and the quaddie waitress who'd been serving his drink on the
lounge level chimed in with the news that the assailant had been a quaddie, and had
fled down an adjoining corridor in his floater. The transient was sure he'd been male,
although the waitress, now that the question was raised, grew less certain. Dubauer
apologized for not having glimpsed the person at all.
Miles prodded the riveter with his toe, and asked Bel in an under-voice, How hard
would it be to carry something like that through Station Security checkpoints?
Easy, said Bel. No one would even blink.
Local manufacture? It looked quite new.
Yes, that's a Sanctuary Station brand. They make good tools.
First job for Venn, then. Find out where the thing was sold, and when. And who to.
Oh, yeah.
Miles was nearly dizzy with a weird combination of delight and dismay. The delight
was partly adrenaline high, a familiar and dangerous old addiction, partly the
realization that having been potshotted by a quaddie gave him a stick to beat back
Greenlaw's relentless attack on his Barrayaran brutality. Quaddies were killers too,
hah. They just weren't as good at it.... He remembered Solian, and took back that
thought. Yeah, and if Greenlaw didn't set me up for this herself. Now there was a nice,
paranoid theory. He set it aside to reexamine when his head had cooled. After all, a
couple of hundred people, both quaddies and transients - including all of the fleet's
galactic passengers - must have known he'd be coming here this morning.
A quaddie medical squad arrived, and on their heels - immediately after them, Chief
Venn. The security chief was instantly deluged with excited descriptions of the
spectacular attack on the Imperial Auditor. Only the erstwhile victim Miles was calm,
standing in wait with a certain grim amusement.
Amusement was an emotion notably lacking in Venn's face. Were you hit, Lord Auditor
Vorkosigan?
No. Time to put in a good word - we may need it later. Thanks to the quick
reactions of Portmaster Thorne, here. But for this remarkable herm, you - and the Union
of Free Habitats - would have one hell of a mess on your hands just now.
A babble of confirmation solidified this view, with a couple of people breathlessly
describing Bel's selfless defense of the visiting dignitary with the shield of its own
body. Bel's eye glinted briefly at Miles, though whether with gratitude or its opposite
Miles was not just sure. The portmaster's modest protests served only to firmly affix
the picture of this heroism in the eyewitnesses' minds, and Miles suppressed a grin.
One of the quaddie security patrollers who had gone in pursuit of the assailant now
returned, floating back over the balcony to jerk to a halt before Chief Venn and report
breathlessly, Lost him, sir. We've put all duty personnel on alert, but we don't have
much of a physical description.
Three or four people attempted to supplement this lack, in vivid and contradictory
terms. Bel, listening, frowned more deeply.
Miles nudged the herm. Hm?
Bel shook its head and murmured back, Thought for a moment he looked like someone
I'd seen recently, but that was a downsider, so - no.
Miles considered his own brief impression. Bright-haired, light-skinned, a trifle
bulky, of indeterminate age, probably male - this could cover some several hundred
quaddies on Graf Station. Laboring under intense emotion, but by that time, Miles had
been too. Seen once, at that distance, under such circumstances, Miles didn't think
even he could reliably pick the fellow out of a group of similar physical types.
Unfortunately, none of the transients had happened just then to be doing a vid scan of
the lobby decor or each other to show the folks back home. The waitress and her patron
weren't even quite sure when the fellow had arrived, though they thought he'd been in
position for a few minutes, upper hands resting casually upon the balcony railing, as
if waiting for some last straggler from the passengers' meeting to mount the stairs.
And so he was.
The still-shaken Dubauer fended off the medtechs, insisting it could treat the
clotted rivet-graze itself and, reiterating a lack of anything to add to the
testimonies, begged to be let go back to its room to lie down.
Bel said to its fellow Betan, Sorry about all this. I may be tied up for a while. If
I can't get away myself, I'll have Boss Watts send another supervisor to escort you
aboard the Idris to take care of your critters.
Thank you, Portmaster. That would be very welcome. You'll call my room, yes? It
really is most urgent. Dubauer withdrew hastily.
Miles couldn't blame Dubauer for fleeing, for the quaddie news services were
arriving, in the persons of two eager reporters in floaters emblazoned with the logo of
their journalistic work gang. An array of little vidcam floaters bobbed after them. The
vidcams darted about, collecting scans. Sealer Greenlaw followed hurriedly in their
wake, and wove her floater determinedly through the growing mob to Miles's side. She
was flanked by two quaddie bodyguards in Union Militia garb, with serious weapons and
armor. However useless against assassins, they at least had the salutary effect of
making the babbling bystanders back off.
Lord Auditor Vorkosigan, were you hurt? she demanded at once.
Miles repeated to her the assurances he'd made to Venn. He kept one eye on the robot
vidcams floating up to him and recording his words, and not just to be sure his good
side was turned to them. But none appeared to be mini-weapons-platforms in disguise. He
made sure to loudly mention Bel's heroics again, which had the useful effect of turning
them in pursuit of the Betan portmaster, now on the other side of the lobby being
grilled in more detail by Venn's security people.
Greenlaw said stiffly, Lord Auditor Vorkosigan, may I convey my profound personal
apologies for this untoward incident. I assure you, all of the Union's resources will
be turned to tracking down what I am certain must be an unbalanced individual and
danger to us all.
Danger to us all indeed. I don't know what's going on, here, said Miles. He let his
voice sharpen. And clearly, neither do you. This is no diplomatic chess game any more.
Someone seems to be trying to start a damned war in here. They nearly succeeded.
She took a deep breath. I am certain the person was acting alone.
Miles frowned thoughtfully. The hotheads are always with us, true. He lowered his
voice. For what? Retaliation? Did any of the quaddies injured by Vorpatril's strike
force suddenly die last night? He'd thought they all were on the recovering list. It
was hard to imagine a quaddie relative or lover or friend taking bloody revenge for
anything short of a fatality, but...
No, said Greenlaw, her voice slowing as she considered this hypothesis.
Regretfully, her voice firmed. No. I would have been told.
So, Greenlaw was wishing for a simple explanation, too. But honest enough not to fool
herself, at least.
His wrist com gave its high priority beep; he slapped it. Yes?
My Lord Vorkosigan? It was Admiral Vorpatril's voice, strained.
Not Ekaterin or Roic after all. Miles's heart climbed back down out of his throat. He
tried not to let his voice go irritable. Yes, Admiral?
Oh, thank God. We received a report that you were attacked.
All over now. They missed. Station Security is here now.
There was a brief pause. Vorpatril's voice returned, fraught with implication: My
Lord Auditor, my fleet is on full alert, ready at your command.
Oh, crap. Thank you, Admiral, but stand down, please, Miles said hastily. Really.
It's under control. I'll get back to you in a few minutes. Do nothing without my
direct, personal orders!
Very well, my lord, said Vorpatril stiffly, still in a very suspicious tone. Miles
cut the channel.
Greenlaw was staring at him. He explained to her, I'm Gregor's Voice. To the
Barrayarans, it's as if that quaddie had fired on the Emperor, almost. When I said
someone had nearly started a war, it wasn't a figure of speech, Sealer Greenlaw. At
home, this place would be crawling with ImpSec's best by now.
She cocked her head, her frown sharpening. And how would an attack on an ordinary
Barrayaran subject be treated? More casually, I daresay?
Not more casually, but on a lower organizational level. It would be a matter for
their Count's District guard.
So on Barrayar, what kind of justice you receive depends on who you are?
Interesting. I do not regret to inform you, Lord Vorkosigan, that on Graf Station you
will be treated like any other victim - no better, no worse. Oddly enough, this is no
loss for you.
How salutary for me, said Miles dryly. And while you're proving how unimpressed
you are with my Imperial authority, a dangerous killer remains at large. What will it
be to lovely, egalitarian Graf Station if he goes for a less personal method of
disposing of me next time, such as a large bomb? Trust me - even on Barrayar, we all
die the same. Shall we continue this discussion in private? The vidcams, evidently
finished with Bel, were zooming back toward him.
His head swiveled around at a breathless cry of, Miles! Also zooming toward him was
Ekaterin, Roic lumbering at her shoulder. Nicol and Garnet Five followed in floaters.
Pale of face and wide of eye, Ekaterin strode across the detritus in the lobby, gripped
his hands, and, at his crooked smile, hugged him fiercely. Fully conscious of the
vidcams avidly circling, he hugged her back, making sure that no journalists alive, no
matter how many arms or legs they possessed, could resist putting this one up front and
center. A human-interest shot, yeah.
Roic said apologetically, I tried to stop her, m'lord, but she insisted on coming
here.
It's all right, said Miles in a muffled voice.
Ekaterin murmured unhappily in his ear, I thought this was a safe place. It felt
safe. The quaddies seemed like such peaceful people.
The majority of them undoubtedly are, Miles said. Reluctantly, he released her,
though he still kept a firm grip on one hand. They stood back and regarded each other
anxiously.
Across the lobby, Nicol flew to Bel with much the same look on her face as had been
on Ekaterin's, and the vidcams flocked after her.
Miles asked Roic quietly, How far did you get on Solian?
Not far, m'lord. I decided to start with the Idris, and got all the access codes
from Brun and Molino all right, but the quaddies wouldn't permit me to board her. I was
about to call you.
Miles grinned briefly. Bet I can fix that now, by damn.
Greenlaw returned to invite the Barrayarans to step into the hostel management's
meeting room, hastily cleared as a refuge.
Miles tucked Ekaterin's hand into his arm, and they followed; he shook his head
regretfully at a reporter who flitted purposefully toward them, and one of Greenlaw's
Union Militia guards made a stern warding motion. Thwarted, the quaddie journalist
pounced on Garnet Five instead. With a performer's reflex, she welcomed him with a
blinding smile.
Did you have a nice morning? Miles asked Ekaterin brightly as they picked their way
over the mess on the floor.
She eyed him in some bemusement. Yes, lovely. Quaddie hydroponics are
extraordinary. Her voice went dry as she glanced around the battle zone. And you?
Delightful. Well, not if we hadn't ducked. But if I can't figure out how to use this
to break our deadlock, I should turn in my Auditor's chain. He stifled a fox's smile,
contemplating Greenlaw's back.
The things one learns on a honeymoon. Now I know how to coax you out of your glum
moods. Just hire someone to shoot at you.
Peps me right up, he agreed. I figured out years ago that I was addicted to
adrenaline. I also figured out that it was going to be toxic, eventually, if I didn't
taper off.
Indeed. She inhaled. The slight trembling in the hand tucked in the crook of his
elbow was lessening, and its clamp on his biceps was growing less circulation-stopping.
Her face was back to being deceptively serene.
Greenlaw led them through the office corridor behind the reception area to a
cluttered workroom. Its small central vid table had been swept clean of ringed cups,
flaccid drink bulbs, and plastic flimsies, now piled haphazardly on a credenza shoved
to one wall. Miles saw Ekaterin into a station chair and sat next to her. Greenlaw
positioned her floater at chair-height opposite. Roic and one of the quaddie guards
jockeyed for position at the door, frowning at each other.
Miles reminded himself to be indignant and not ecstatic. Well. He let a distinct
note of sarcasm creep into his voice. That was a remarkable addition to my morning's
speaking schedule.
Greenlaw began, Lord Auditor, you have my apologies -
Your apologies are all very well, Madam Sealer, but I would happily trade them for
your cooperation. Assuming you are not behind this incident, he overrode her indignant
splutter, continuing smoothly, and I don't see why you should be, despite the
suggestive circumstances. Random violence does not seem to me to be in the usual
quaddie style.
It certainly is not!
Well, if it's not random, then it must be connected. The central mystery of this
entire imbroglio remains the neglected disappearance of Lieutenant Solian.
It was not neglected -
I disagree. The answer to it might - should! - have been put together days ago,
except that Tab A seems to be on one side of an artificial divide from Slot B. If
pursuing my quaddie assailant is the Union's task - he paused and raised his eyebrows;
she nodded grimly - then pursuing Solian is surely mine. It's the one string I have in
hand, and I intend to follow it up. And if the two investigations don't meet in the
middle somewhere, I'll eat my Auditor's seal.
She blinked, seeming a little surprised by this turn of discourse. Possibly...
Good. Then I want complete and unimpeded access for me, my assistant Armsman Roic,
and anyone else I may designate to any and all areas and records pertinent to this
search. Starting with the Idris, and starting immediately!
We cannot give downsiders license to roam at will over Station secure areas that -
Madam Sealer. You are here to promote and protect Union interests, as I am to
promote and protect Barrayaran interests. But if there is anything at all about this
mess that's good for either Quaddiespace or the Imperium, it's not apparent to me! Is
it to you?
No, but -
Then you agree, the sooner we dig to the center of it, the better.
She tented her upper hands, regarding him through narrowed eyes. Before she could
marshal further objections, Bel entered, having apparently escaped Venn and the media
at last. Nicol bobbed along beside in her floater.
Greenlaw brightened, and seized on the one auspicious point for the quaddies in the
chaos of the morning. Portmaster Thorne. Welcome. I understand the Union owes you a
debt of thanks for your courage and quick thinking.
Bel glanced at Miles - a trifle dryly, Miles thought - and favored her with a self-
deprecating half salute. All in a day's work, ma'am.
At one time, that would have been a statement of plain fact, Miles couldn't help
reflecting.
Greenlaw shook her head. I trust not on Graf Station, Portmaster!
Well, I certainly thank Portmaster Thorne! said Ekaterin warmly.
Nicol's hand crept into Bel's, and she shot a look up from under her dark eyelashes
for which a red-blooded soldier of any gender would gladly have traded medals, campaign
ribbons, and combat bonuses all three, high command's boring speeches thrown in gratis.
Bel began to look slightly more reconciled to being designated Heroic Person of the
Hour.
To be sure, Miles agreed. To say that I'm pleased with the portmaster's liaison
services is a profound understatement. I would take it as a personal favor if the herm
might continue in this assignment for the duration of my stay.
Greenlaw caught Bel's eye, then nodded at Miles. Certainly, Lord Auditor. Relieved,
Miles gathered, to have something to hand to him that cost her no new concessions. A
small smile moved her lips, a rare event. Furthermore, I shall grant you and your
designated assistants access to Graf Station records and secured areas - under the
portmaster's direct supervision.
Miles pretended to consider this compromise, frowning artistically. This places a
substantial demand on Portmaster Thorne's time and attention.
Bel put in demurely, I'll gladly accept the assignment, Madam Sealer, provided Boss
Watts authorizes both all my overtime hours, and another supervisor to take over my
routine duties.
Not a problem, Portmaster. I'll direct Watts to add his increased departmental costs
to the Komarran fleet's docking bill. Greenlaw delivered this promise with a glint of
grim satisfaction.
Added to Bel's ImpSec stipend, this would put the herm on triple time, Miles
estimated. Old Dendarii accounting tricks, hah. Well, Miles would see that the Imperium
got its money's worth. Very well, he conceded, endeavoring to appear stung. Then I
wish to proceed aboard the Idris immediately.
Ekaterin didn't crack a smile, but a faint light of appreciation glimmered in her
eye.
And what if she had accepted his invitation to accompany him this morning? And had
walked up those stairs next to him - his assailant's erratic aim would not have passed
over her head. Picturing the probable results put an unpleasant knot in his stomach,
and his lingering adrenaline high tasted suddenly very sour.
Lady Vorkosigan, - Miles swallowed - I am going to arrange for Lady Vorkosigan to
stay aboard the Prince Xav until Graf Station Security apprehends the would-be killer
and this mystery is resolved. He added in an apologetic murmur aside to her,
Sorry...
She returned him a brief nod of understanding. It's all right. Not happy, to be
sure, but she possessed too much good Vor sense to argue about security issues.
He continued, I therefore request special clearance for a Barrayaran personnel
shuttle to dock and take her out. Or the Kestrel? No, he dared not lose access to his
independent transport, bolthole, and secure communications station.
Greenlaw twitched. Excuse me, Lord Vorkosigan, but that's how the last Barrayaran
assault arrived stationside. We do not care to host another such influx. She glanced
at Ekaterin and took a breath. However, I appreciate your concern. I would be glad to
offer one of our pods and pilots to Lady Vorkosigan as a courtesy transport.
Miles replied, Madam Sealer, an unknown quaddie just tried to kill me. I'll grant I
don't really think it was your secret policy, but the key word here is unknown. We
don't yet know that it wasn't some quaddie - or group of quaddies - still in a position
of trust. There are several experiments I'd be willing to run to find out, but this
isn't one of them.
Bel sighed audibly. If you wish, Lord Auditor Vorkosigan, I will undertake to
personally pilot Lady Vorkosigan out to your flagship.
But I need you here!
Bel evidently read his look, for the herm added, Or some pilot of my choosing?
With an unfeigned reluctance, this time, Miles agreed. The next step was to call
Admiral Vorpatril and inform him of his ship's new guest. Vorpatril, when his face
appeared above the vid plate on the conference table, passed no comment at the news
other than, Certainly, my Lord Auditor. The Prince Xav will be honored. But Miles
could read in the admiral's shrewd glance his estimation of the increased seriousness
of the situation. Miles ascertained that no hysterical preliminary dispatches about the
incident had yet been squirted on their several-day trip to HQ; news and reassurances
would therefore arrive, thankfully, simultaneously. Aware of their quaddie listeners,
Vorpatril made no other remark than a bland request that the Lord Auditor bring him up
to date on developments at his earliest convenience - in other words, as soon as he
could reach a private secured comconsole.
The meeting broke up. More of Greenlaw's Union militia guards had arrived, and they
all exited back into the hostel's lobby, well screened, belatedly, by armed outriders.
Miles made sure to walk as far from Ekaterin as possible. In the shattered lobby,
quaddie forensics techs, under Venn's direction, were taking vid scans and
measurements. Miles frowned up at the balcony, considering trajectories; Bel, walking
beside him and watching his glance, raised its eyebrows. Miles lowered his voice and
said suddenly, Bel, you don't suppose that loon could have been firing at you, could
he?
Why me?
Well, just so. How many people does a portmaster usually piss off, in the normal
course of business? He glanced around; Nicol was out of earshot, floating beside
Ekaterin and engaged in some low-voiced, animated exchange with her. Or not-business?
You haven't been, oh, sleeping with anyone's wife, have you? Or husband, he added
conscientiously. Or daughter, or whatever.
No, said Bel firmly. Nor with their household pets, either. What a Barrayaran view
of human motivations you do have, Miles.
Miles grinned. Sorry. What about... old business?
Bel sighed. I thought I'd outrun or outlived all the old business. The herm eyed
Miles sideways. Almost. And added after a thoughtful moment, You'd surely be way
ahead of me in line for that one, too.
Possibly. Miles frowned. And then there was Dubauer. That herm was certainly tall
enough to be a target. Although how the devil could an elderly Betan dealer in designer
animals, who'd spent most of its time on Graf Station locked in a hostel room anyway,
have annoyed some quaddie enough to inspire him to try to blow its timid head off? Too
damned many possibles, here. It was time to inject some hard data.
CHAPTER NINE
The quaddie pilot of Bel's selecting arrived and whisked Ekaterin off, together with
a couple of stern-looking Union Militia guards. Miles watched her go in mild anguish.
As she turned to look over her shoulder, walking out the hostel door, he tapped his
wrist com meaningfully; she silently raised her left arm, com bracelet glinting, in
return.
Since they were all on their way to the Idris anyway, Bel used the delay to call
Dubauer down to the lobby again. Dubauer, smooth cheek now neatly sealed with a
discreet dab of surgical glue, arrived promptly, and stared in some alarm at their new
quaddie military escort. But the shy, graceful herm appeared to have regained most of
its self-possession, and murmured sincere gratitude to Bel for recollecting its
creatures' needs despite all the tumult.
The little party walked or floated, variously, trailing Portmaster Thorne via a
notably un-public back way through the customs and security zone to the array of
loading bays devoted to galactic shipping. The bay serving the Idris, clamped into its
outboard docking cradle, was quiet and dim, unpeopled except for the two Graf Station
security patrollers guarding the hatches.
Bel presented its authorization, and the two patrollers floated aside to allow Bel
access to the hatch controls. The door to the big freight lock slid upward, and,
leaving their Union Militia escort to help guard the entry, Miles, Roic, and Dubauer
followed Bel aboard the freighter.
The Idris, like its sister ship the Rudra, was of a utilitarian design that dispensed
with elegance. It was essentially a bundle of seven huge parallel cylinders: the
central-most devoted to personnel, four of the outer six given to freight. The other
two nacelles, opposite each other in the outer ring, housed the ship's Necklin rods
that generated the field to fold it through jump points. Normal-space engines behind,
mass shield generators in front. The ship rotated around its central axis to bring each
outer cylinder to alignment with the stationside freight lock for automated loading or
unloading of containers, or hand loading of more delicate goods. The design was not
without added safety value, for in the event of a pressurization loss in one or more
cylinders, any of the others could serve as a refuge while repairs were made or
evacuation effected.
As they walked now through one freight nacelle, Miles glanced up and down its central
access corridor, which receded into darkness. They passed through another lock into a
small foyer in the forward section of the ship. In one direction lay passenger
staterooms; in the other, personnel cabins and offices. Lift tubes and a pair of stairs
led up to the level devoted to ship's mess, infirmary, and recreation facilities, and
downward to life support, engineering, and other utility areas.
Roic glanced at his notes and nodded down the corridor. This way to Solian's
security office, m'lord.
I'll escort Citizen Dubauer here to its flock, said Bel, and catch up with you.
Dubauer made an abortive little bow, and the two herms passed onward into the lock
leading to one of the outboard freight sections.
Roic counted doorways past a second connecting foyer and tapped a code into a lock
pad near the stern. The door slid aside and the light came up revealing a tiny, spare
chamber housing scarcely more than a computer interface and two chairs, and some
lockable wall cabinets. Miles fired up the interface while Roic ran a quick inventory
of the cabinets' contents. All security-issue weapons and their power cartridges were
present and accounted for, all safety equipment neatly packed in its places. The office
was void of personal effects, no vid displays of the girl back home, no sly - or
political - jokes or encouraging slogans pasted inside the cabinet doors. But Brun's
investigators had been through here once already, after Solian had disappeared but
before the ship had been evacuated by the quaddies following the clash with the
Barrayarans; Miles made a note to inquire if Brun - or Venn, for that matter - had
removed anything.
Roic's override codes promptly brought up all of Solian's records and logs. Miles
started from Solian's final shift. The lieutenant's daily reports were laconic,
repetitive, and disappointingly free of comments on potential assassins. Miles wondered
if he was listening to a dead man's voice. By rights, there ought to be some psychic
frisson. The eerie silence of the ship encouraged the imagination.
While the ship was in port, its security system did keep continuous vid records of
everyone and everything that boarded or departed through the stationside or other
activated locks, as a routine antitheft, antisabotage precaution. Slogging through the
whole ten days' worth of comings and goings before the ship had been impounded, even on
fast forward, was going to be a time-consuming chore. The daunting possibility of
records having been altered or deleted, as Brun suspected Solian had done to cover his
desertion, would also have to be explored.
Miles made copies of everything that seemed even vaguely pertinent, for further
examination, then he and Roic paid a visit to Solian's cabin, just a few meters down
the same corridor. It too was small and spare and unrevealing. No telling what personal
items Solian might have packed in the missing valise, but there certainly weren't many
left. The ship had left Komarr, what, six weeks ago? With half a dozen ports of call
between. When the ship was in-port was the busiest time for its security; perhaps
Solian hadn't had much time to shop for souvenirs.
Miles tried to make sense of what was left. Half a dozen uniforms, a few civvies, a
bulky jacket, some shoes and boots... Solian's personally fitted pressure suit. That
seemed an expensive item one might want for a long sojourn in Quaddiespace. Not very
anonymous, though, with its Barrayaran military markings.
Finding nothing in the cabin to relieve them of the chore of examining vid records,
Miles and Roic returned to Solian's office and began. If nothing else, Miles encouraged
himself, reviewing the security vids would give him a mental picture of the potential
dramatis personae... buried somewhere in the mob of persons who had nothing to do with
anything, to be sure. Looking at everything was a sure sign that he didn't know what
the hell he was doing yet, but it was the only way he'd ever found to smoke out the
nonobvious clue that everyone else had overlooked....
He glanced up, after a time, at a movement in the office door. Bel had returned, and
leaned against the jamb.
Finding anything yet? the herm asked.
Not so far. Miles paused the vid display. Did your Betan friend get its problems
taken care of?
Still working. Feeding the critters and shoveling manure, or at least, adding
nutrient concentrate to the replicator reservoirs and removing the waste bags from the
filtration units. I can see why Dubauer was upset at the delay. There must be a
thousand animal fetuses in that hold. Major financial loss, if it becomes a loss.
Huh. Most animal husbandry people ship frozen embryos, said Miles. That's the way
my grandfather used to import his fancy horse bloodstock from Earth. Implanted 'em in a
grade mare upon arrival, to finish cooking. Cheaper, lighter, less maintenance -
shipping delays not an issue, if it comes to that. Although I suppose this way uses the
travel time for gestation.
Dubauer did say time was of the essence. Bel hitched its shoulders, frowning
uncomfortably. What do the Idris's logs have to say about Dubauer and its cargo,
anyway?
Miles called up the records. Boarded when the fleet first assembled in Komarr orbit.
Bound for Xerxes - the next stop after Graf Station, which must make this mess
especially frustrating. Reservation made about... six weeks before the fleet departed,
via a Komarran shipping agent. A legitimate company; Miles recognized the name. This
record did not indicate where Dubauer-and-cargo had originated, nor if the herm had
intended to connect with another commercial - or private - carrier at Xerxes for some
further ultimate destination. He eyed Bel shrewdly. Something got your hackles up?
I... don't know. There's something funny about Dubauer.
In what way? Would I get the joke?
If I could say, it wouldn't bother me so much.
It seems a fussy old herm... maybe something on the academic side? University, or
former university, bioengineering research and development would fit the oddly precise
and polite style. So would personal shyness.
That might account for it, said Bel, in an unconvinced tone.
Funny. Right. Miles made a note to especially observe the herm's movements on and
off the Idris, in his records search.
Bel, watching him, remarked, Greenlaw was secretly impressed with you, by the way.
Oh, yeah? She's certainly managed to keep it a secret from me.
Bel's grin sparked. She told me you appeared very task oriented. That's a
compliment, in Quaddiespace. I didn't explain to her that you considered getting shot
at to be a normal part of your daily routine.
Well, not daily. By preference. Miles grimaced. Nor normally, in the new job. I'm
supposed to be rear echelon, now. I'm getting old, Bel.
The grin twisted half-up in sardonic amusement. Speaking from the vantage of one not
quite twice your age, and in your fine old Barrayaran phrase of yore, horseshit,
Miles.
Miles shrugged. Maybe it's the impending fatherhood.
Got you spooked, does it? Bel's brows rose.
No, of course not. Or - well, yes, but not in that way. My father was... I have a
lot to live up to. And perhaps even a few things to do differently.
Bel tilted its head, but before it could speak again, footsteps sounded down the
corridor. Dubauer's light, cultured voice inquired, Portmaster Thorne? Ah, there you
are.
Bel moved within as the tall herm appeared in the doorway. Miles noted Roic's
appraising eye flick, before the bodyguard pretended to return his attention to the vid
display.
Dubauer pulled on its fingers anxiously and asked Bel, Are you returning to the
hostel soon?
No. That is, I'm not returning to the hostel at all.
Oh. Ah. The herm hesitated. You see, with strange quaddies flying around out there
shooting at people, I didn't really want to go out on the station alone. Has anyone
heard - he hasn't been apprehended yet, has he? No? I was hoping... can anyone go with
me?
Bel smiled sympathetically at this display of frazzled nerves. I'll send one of the
security guards with you. That all right?
I should be extremely grateful, yes.
Are you all finished, now?
Dubauer bit its lip. Well, yes and no. That is, I have finished servicing my
replicators, and done what little I can to slow the growth and metabolism of their
contents. But if my cargo is to be held here very much longer, there'll not be time to
get to my final destination before my creatures outgrow their containers. If I indeed
have to destroy them, it will be a disastrous event.
The Komarran fleet's insurance ought to make good on that, I'd think, said Bel.
Or you could sue Graf Station, Miles suggested. Better yet, do both, and collect
twice. Bel spared him an exasperated glance.
Dubauer managed a pained smile. That only addresses the immediate financial loss.
After a longer pause, the herm continued, To salvage the more important part, the
proprietary bioengineering, I wish to take tissue samples and freeze them before
disposal. I shall also require some equipment for complete biomatter breakdown. Or
access to the ship's converters, if they won't become overloaded with the mass I must
destroy. It's going to be a time-consuming and, I fear, extremely messy task. I was
wondering, Portmaster Thorne - if you cannot obtain my cargo's release from quaddie
impoundment, can you at least get me permission to stay aboard the Idris while I
undertake its dispatch?
Bel's brow wrinkled at the horrific picture the herm's soft words conjured. Let's
hope you're not forced to such extreme measures. How much time do you have, really?
The herm hesitated. Not very much more. And if I must dispose of my creatures - the
sooner, the better. I'd prefer to get it over with.
Understandable. Bel blew out its breath.
There might be some alternate possibilities to stretch your time window, said
Miles. Hiring a smaller, faster ship to take you directly to your destination, for
example.
The herm shook its head sadly. And who would pay for this ship, my Lord Vorkosigan?
The Barrayaran Imperium?
Miles bit his tongue on either Yeah, sure! or alternate suggestions involving
Greenlaw and the Union. He was supposed to be handling the big picture, not getting
bogged down in all the human - or inhumane - details. He made a neutral gesture and let
Bel shepherd the Betan out.
Miles spent a few more minutes failing to find anything exciting on the vid logs,
then Bel returned.
Miles shut down the vid. I think I'd like a look at that funny Betan's cargo.
Can't help you there, said Bel. I don't have the codes to the freight lockers.
Only the passengers are supposed to have the access to the space they rent, by
contract, and the quaddies haven't bothered to get a court order to make them disgorge
'em. Decreases Graf Station's liability for theft while the passengers aren't aboard,
y'see. You'll have to get Dubauer to let you in.
Dear Bel, I am an Imperial Auditor, and this is not only a Barrayaran-registered
ship, it belongs to Empress Laisa's own family. I go where I will. Solian has to have a
security override for every cranny of this ship. Roic?
Right here, m'lord. The armsman tapped his notation device.
Very well, then, let's take a walk.
Bel and Roic followed him down the corridor and through the central lock to the
adjoining freight section. The double-door to the second chamber down yielded to Roic's
careful tapping on its lock pad. Miles poked his head through and brought up the
lights.
It was an impressive sight. Gleaming replicator racks stood packed in tight rows,
filling the space and leaving only narrow aisles between. Each rack sat bolted on its
own float pallet, in four layers of five units - twenty to a rack, as high as Roic was
tall. Beneath darkened display readouts on each, control panels twinkled with
reassuringly green lights. For now.
Miles walked down the aisle formed by five pallets, around the end, and up the next,
counting. More pallets lined the walls. Bel's estimate of a thousand seemed exactly
right. You'd think the placental chambers would be a larger size. These seem nearly
identical to the ones at home. With which he'd grown intimately familiar, of late.
These arrays were clearly meant for mass production. All twenty units stacked on a
pallet economically shared reservoirs, pumps, filtration devices, and the control
panel. He leaned closer. I don't see a maker's mark. Or serial numbers or anything
else that would reveal the planet of origin for what were clearly very finely made
machines. He tapped a control to bring the monitor screen to life.
The glowing screen didn't contain manufacturing data or serial numbers either. Just a
stylized scarlet screaming-bird pattern on a silver background.... His heart began to
lump. What the hell was this doing here... ?
Miles, said Bel's voice, seeming to come from a long way off, if you're going to
pass out, put your head down.
Between my knees, choked Miles, and kiss my ass good-bye. Bel, do you know what
that sigil is?
No, said Bel, in a leery now-what? tone.
Cetagandan Star Creche. Not the military ghem-lords, not their cultivated - and I
mean that in both senses - masters, the haut lords - not even the Imperial Celestial
Garden. Higher still. The Star Creche is the innermost core of the innermost ring of
the whole damned giant genetic engineering project that is the Cetagandan Empire. The
haut ladies' own gene bank. They design their emperors, there. Hell, they design the
whole haut race, there. The haut ladies don't work in animal genes. They think it would
be beneath them. They leave that to the ghem-ladies. Not, note, to the ghem-lords...
Hand shaking slightly, he reached out to touch the monitor and bring up the next
control level. General power and reservoir readouts, all in the green. The next level
allowed individual monitoring of each fetus contained within one of the twenty separate
placental chambers. Human blood temperature, baby mass, and if that weren't enough,
tiny individual vid spy cameras built in, with lights, to view the replicators'
inhabitants in real time, floating peacefully in their amniotic sacs. The one in the
monitor twitched tiny fingers at the soft red glow, and seemed to scrunch up its big
dark eyes. If not quite grown to term, it - no, she - was damned close to it, Miles
guessed. He thought of Helen Natalia, and Aral Alexander.
Roic swung on his booted heel, lips parting in dismay, staring up the aisle of
glittering devices. D'you mean, m'lord, that all these things are full of human
babies?
Well, now, that's a question. Actually, that's two questions. Are they full, and are
they human? If they are haut infants, that latter is a most debatable point. For the
first, we can at least look... A dozen more pallet monitors, checked at random
intervals around the room, revealed similar results. Miles was breathing rapidly by the
time he gave it up for proven.
Roic said in a puzzled tone, So what's a Betan herm doing with a bunch of Cetagandan
replicators? And just because they're Cetagandan make, how d'you know it's Cetagandans
inside 'em? Maybe the Betan bought the replicators used?
Miles, lips drawn back on a grin, swung to Bel. Betan? What do you think, Bel? How
much did you two talk about the old sandbox while you were supervising this visit?
We didn't talk much at all. Bel shook its head. But that doesn't prove anything.
I'm not much for bringing up the subject of home myself, and even if I had, I'm too out
of touch with Beta to spot inaccuracies in current events anyway. It wasn't Dubauer's
conversation that was the trouble. There was just something... off, in its body
language.
Body language. Just so. Miles stepped to Bel, reached up, and turned the herm's
face to the light. Bel did not flinch at his nearness, but merely smiled. Fine hairs
gleamed on cheek and chin. Miles's eyes narrowed as he carefully revisualized the cut
on Dubauer's cheek.
You have facial down, like women. All herms do, right?
Sure. Unless they're using a really thorough depilatory, I suppose. Some even
cultivate beards.
Dubauer doesn't. Miles made to pace down the aisle, stopped himself, turned back,
and held still with an effort. Nary a sprout in sight, except for the pretty silver
eyebrows and hair, which I'd wager Betan dollars to sand are recent implants. Body
language, hah. Dubauer's not double-sexed at all - what were your ancestors thinking?
Bel smirked cheerily.
But altogether sexless. Truly 'it.'
It, in Betan parlance, Bel began in the weary tone of one who has had to explain
this far too often, does not carry the connotation of an inanimate object that it does
in other planetary cultures. I say this despite a certain ex-boss of my very distant
past, who did a pretty fair imitation of the sort of large and awkward piece of
furniture that one can neither get rid of nor decorate around -
Miles waved this aside. Don't tell me - I got that lecture at my mother's knee. But
Dubauer's not a herm. Dubauer's a ba.
A who what?
To the casual outside eye, the ba appear to be the bred servitors of the Celestial
Garden, where the Cetagandan emperor dwells in serenity in surroundings of aesthetic
perfection, or so the haut lords would have you believe. The ba seem the ultimate loyal
servant race, human dogs. Beautiful, of course, because everything inside the Celestial
Garden must be. I first ran into the ba about ten years back, when I was sent to
Cetaganda - not as Admiral Naismith, but as Lieutenant Lord Vorkosigan - on a
diplomatic errand. To attend the funeral of Emperor Fletchir Giaja's mother, as it
happened, the old Dowager Empress Lisbet. I got to see a lot of ba up close. Those of a
certain age - relicts of Lisbet's youth a century ago, mainly - had all been made
hairless. It was a fashion, which has since passed.
But the ba aren't servants, or anyway, aren't just servants, of the Imperial haut.
Remember what I said about the haut ladies of the Star Creche only working in human
genes? The ba are where the haut ladies test out prospective new gene complexes,
improvements to the haut race, before they decide if they're good enough to add to this
year's new model haut cohort. In a sense, the ba are the haut's siblings. Elder
siblings, almost. Children, even, from a certain angle of view. The haut and the ba are
two sides of one coin.
A ba is every bit as smart and dangerous as a haut lord. But not as autonomous. The
ba are as loyal as they are sexless, because they're made so, and for some of the same
reasons of control. At least it explains why I kept thinking I'd met Dubauer someplace
before. If that ba doesn't share most of its genes with Fletchir Giaja himself, I'll
eat my, my, my -
Fingernails? Bel suggested.
Miles hastily removed his hand from his mouth. He continued, If Dubauer's a ba, and
I'll swear it is, these replicators have to be full of Cetagandan... somethings. But
why here? Why transport them covertly, and on a ship of a once-and-future enemy empire,
at that? Well, I hope not future - the last three rounds of open warfare we had with
our Cetagandan neighbors were surely enough. If this was something open and aboveboard,
why not travel on a Cetagandan ship, with all the trimmings? I guarantee it's not for
economy's sake. Deathly secret, this, but who from, and why? What the hell is the Star
Creche up to, anyway? He swung in a circle, unable to keep still. And what is so
hellish secret that this ba would bring these live growing fetuses all this way, but
then plan to kill them all to keep the secret rather than ask for help?
Oh, said Bel. Yeah, that. That's... a bit unnerving, when you think about it.
Roic said indignantly, That's horrible, m'lord!
Maybe Dubauer doesn't really intend to flush them, said Bel in an uncertain tone.
Maybe it just said that to get us to put more pressure on the quaddies to give it a
break, let it take its cargo off the Idris.
Ah... said Miles. There was an attractive idea - wash his hands of this whole
unholy mess... Crap. No. Not yet, anyway. In fact, I want you to lock the Idris back
down. Don't let Dubauer - don't let anyone back on board. For once in my life, I
actually want to check with HQ before I jump. And as quickly as possible.
What was it that Gregor had said - had talked around, rather? Something has stirred
up the Cetagandans around Rho Ceta. Something peculiar. Oh, Sire, do we ever have
peculiar here now. Connections?
Miles, said Bel in aggravation, I just jumped through hoops persuading Watts and
Greenlaw to let Dubauer back on the Idris. How am I going to explain the sudden
reversal? Bel hesitated. If this cargo and its owner are dangerous to Quaddiespace, I
should report it. D'you think that quaddie in the hostel might have been shooting at
Dubauer, instead of at you or me?
The thought has crossed my mind, yes.
Then it's... wrong, to blindside the station on what may be a safety issue.
Miles took a breath. You are Graf Station's representative here; you know, therefore
the station knows. That's enough. For now.
Bel frowned. That argument's too disingenuous even for me.
I'm only asking you to wait. Depending on what information I get back from home, I
could damn well end up buying Dubauer a fast ship to take its cargo away on. One not of
Barrayaran registry, preferably. Just stall. I know you can.
Well... all right. For a little while.
I want the secured comconsole in the Kestrel. We'll seal this hold and continue
later. Wait. I want to have a look at Dubauer's cabin, first.
Miles, have you ever heard of the concept of a search warrant?
Dear Bel, how fussy you have grown in your old age. This is a Barrayaran ship, and I
am Gregor's Voice. I don't ask for search warrants, I issue them.
Miles took one last turn completely around the cargo hold before having Roic lock it
back up. He didn't spot anything different, just, dauntingly, more of the same. Fifty
pallets added up to a lot of uterine replicators. There were no decomposing dead bodies
tucked in behind any of the replicator racks, anyway, worse luck.
Dubauer's accommodation, back in the personnel module, proved unenlightening. It was
a small economy cabin, and whatever personal effects the... individual of unknown
gender had possessed, it had evidently packed and taken them all along when the
quaddies had transferred the passengers to the hostels. No bodies under the bed or in
the cabinets here, either. Brun's people had surely searched it at least cursorily
once, the day after Solian vanished. Miles made a mental note to try to arrange a more
microscopically thorough forensics examination of both the cabin, and the hold with the
replicators. Although - by what organization? He didn't want to turn this over to Venn
yet, but the Barrayaran fleet's medical people were mainly devoted to trauma. I'll
figure something out. Never had he missed ImpSec more keenly.
Do the Cetagandans have any agents here in Quaddiespace? he asked Bel as they
exited the cabin and locked up again. Have you ever encountered your opposite
numbers?
Bel shook its head. People from your region are pretty thinly spread out in this arm
of the Nexus. Barrayar doesn't even keep a full-time consul's office on Union Station,
and neither does Cetaganda. All they have is some quaddie lawyer on retainer over there
who keeps the paperwork for about a dozen minor planetary polities, if anyone should
want it. Visas and entry permissions and such. Actually, as I recall, she handles both
Barrayar and Cetaganda. If there are any Cetagandan agents on Graf, I haven't spotted
them. I can only hope the reverse is also true. Though if the Cetagandans do keep any
spies or agents or informers in Quaddiespace, they're most likely to be on Union. I'm
only here on Graf for, um, personal reasons.
Before they exited the Idris, Roic insisted Bel call Venn for an update on the search
for the murderous quaddie from the hostel lobby. Venn, clearly discommoded, rattled off
reports of vigorous activity on the part of his patrollers - and no results. Roic was
jumpy on the short walk from the Idris's docking bay to the one where the Kestrel was
locked on, eyeing their armed quaddie escort with almost as much suspicion as he eyed
shadows and cross corridors. But they arrived without further incident.
How hard would it be to get Greenlaw's permission to fast-penta Dubauer? Miles
asked Bel, as they made their way through the Kestrel's airlock.
Well, you'd need a court order. And an explanation that would convince a quaddie
judge.
Hm. Ambushing Dubauer with a hypospray aboard the Idris suggests itself to my mind
as a simpler alternate possibility.
It would. Bel sighed. And it would cost me my job if Watts found out I'd helped
you. If Dubauer's innocent of wrongdoing, it would certainly complain to the quaddie
authorities, afterward.
Dubauer's not innocent. At the very least, it's lied about its cargo.
Not necessarily. Its manifest just reads, Mammals, genetically altered, assorted.
You can't say they aren't mammals.
Transporting minors for immoral purposes, then. Slave trading. Hell, I'll think of
something. Miles waved Roic and Bel off to wait, and took over the Kestrel's wardroom
again.
He seated himself, adjusted the security cone, and took a long breath, trying to
round up his galloping thoughts. There was no faster way to get a tightbeam message,
however coded, from Quaddiespace to Barrayar than via the commercial system of links.
Message beams were squirted at the speed of light across local space systems between
wormhole jump point stations. An hour's, or a day's, messages were collected at the
stations and loaded on either scheduled dedicated communications ships, jumping back
and forth on a regular schedule to squirt them across the next local space region, or,
on less traveled routes, on whatever ship next jumped through. The round trip for a
beamed message between Quaddiespace and the Imperium would take several days, at best.
He addressed the message triply, to Emperor Gregor, to ImpSec Chief Allegre, and to
ImpSec galactic operations headquarters on Komarr. After a sketchy outline of the
situation so far, including assurances of his assailant's bad aim, he described
Dubauer, in as much detail as possible, and the startling cargo he'd found aboard the
Idris. He requested full details on the new tensions with the Cetagandans that Gregor
had alluded to so obliquely, and appended an urgent plea for information, if any, on
known Cetagandan operatives and operations in Quaddiespace. He ran the results through
the Kestrel's ImpSec encoder and squirted it on its way.
Now what? Wait for an answer that might be entirely inconclusive? Hardly...
He jumped in his chair when his wrist com buzzed. He gulped and slapped it.
Vorkosigan.
Hello, Miles. It was Ekaterin's voice; his heart rate slowed. Do you have a
moment?
Not only that, I have the Kestrel's comconsole. A moment of privacy, if you can
believe it.
Oh! Just a second, then... The wrist com channel closed. Shortly, Ekaterin's face
and torso appeared over the vid plate. She was wearing that flattering slate-blue thing
again. Ah, she said happily. There you are. That's better.
Well, not quite. He touched his fingers to his lips and transferred the kiss in
pantomime to the image of hers. Cool ghost, alas, not warm flesh. Belatedly, he asked,
Where are you? Alone, he trusted.
In my cabin on the Prince Xav. Admiral Vorpatril gave me a nice one. I think he
evicted some poor senior officer. Are you all right? Have you had your dinner?
Dinner?
Oh, dear, I know that look. Make Lieutenant Smolyani at least open you a meal tray
before you go off again.
Yes, love. He grinned at her. Practicing that maternal drill?
I was thinking of it more as a public service. Have you found something interesting
and useful?
Interesting is an understatement. Useful - well - I'm not sure. He described his
find on the Idris, in only slightly more colorful terms than the ones he'd just sent
off to Gregor.
Ekaterin's eyes grew wide. Goodness! And here I was all excited because I thought
I'd found a fat clue for you! I'm afraid mine's just gossip, by comparison.
Gossip away, do.
Just something I picked up over dinner with Vorpatril's officers. They seemed a
pleasant group, I must say.
I'll bet they made themselves pleasant. Their guest was beautiful, cultured, a breath
of home, and the first female most of them had spoken to in weeks. And married to the
Imperial Auditor, heh. Eat your hearts out, boys.
I tried to get them to talk about Lieutenant Solian, but hardly anyone knew the man.
Except that one fellow remembered that Solian had had to step out of a weekly fleet
security officers' meeting because he'd sprung a nosebleed. I gather that Solian was
more embarrassed and annoyed than alarmed. But it occurred to me that it might be a
chronic thing with him. Nikki had them for a while, and I had them occasionally for a
couple of years when I was a girl, though mine went away on their own. But if Solian
hadn't taken himself to his ship's medtech to get fixed yet, well, it might be another
way someone could have obtained a tissue sample from him for that manufactured blood.
She paused. Actually, now I think on it, I'm not so sure that is a help to you. Anyone
might have grabbed his used nose rag out of the trash, wherever he'd been. Although I
supposed that if his nose was bleeding, at least he had to have been alive at the time.
It seemed a little hopeful, anyway. Her thoughtful frown deepened. Or maybe not.
Thank you, said Miles sincerely. I don't know if it's hopeful or not either, but
it gives me another reason to see the medtechs next. Good! He was rewarded with a
smile. He added, And if you come up with any thoughts on Dubauer's cargo, feel free to
share. Although only with me, for the moment.
I understand. Her brows drew down. It is stunningly strange. Not strange that the
cargo exists - I mean, if all the haut children are conceived and genetically
engineered centrally, the way your friend the haut Pel described it to me when she came
as an envoy to Gregor's wedding, the haut women geneticists have to be exporting
thousands of embryos from the Star Creche all the time.
Not all the time, Miles corrected. Once a year. The annual haut child ships to the
outlying satrapies are all dispatched at the same time. It gives all the top haut-lady
planetary consorts like Pel, who are charged with conducting them, a chance to meet and
consult with each other. Among other things.
She nodded. But to bring this cargo all the way here - and with only one handler to
look after them... If your Dubauer, or whoever it is, really does have a thousand
babies in tow, I don't care if they're normal human or ghem or haut or what, it had
better have several hundred nursemaids waiting for them somewhere.
Truly. Miles rubbed his forehead, which was aching again, and not just from the
exploding possibilities. Ekaterin was right about that meal tray, as usual. If Solian
could have tossed away a blood sample anywhere, any time...
Oh, ha! He rummaged in his trouser pocket and pulled out his handkerchief,
forgotten there since this morning, and opened it on the heavy brown stain. Blood
sample, indeed. He didn't have to wait for ImpSec HQ to get back to him on this
identification. He would have undoubtedly remembered this accidental specimen
eventually without the prompting. Whether before or after the efficient Roic had
cleaned his clothes and returned them ready to don again, now, that was another
question, wasn't it? Ekaterin, I love you dearly. And I need to talk to the Prince
Xav's surgeon right now. He made frantic kissing motions at her, which elicited that
entrancing enigmatic smile of hers, and cut the com.
CHAPTER TEN
Miles made an urgent heads-up call to the Prince Xav; a short delay followed while
Bel negotiated clearance for the Kestrel's message drone. Half a dozen armed Union
Militia patrol vessels still floated protectively between Graf Station and Vorpatril's
fleet lying in frustrated exile several kilometers off. It would not have done for
Miles's precious sample to be shot out of space by some quaddie militia guard with a
double quota of itchy trigger fingers. Miles didn't relax until the Prince Xav reported
the capsule safely retrieved and taken inboard.
He finally settled down at the Kestrel's wardroom table with Bel, Roic, and some
military-issue ration trays. He ate mechanically, barely tasting the admittedly not-
very-tasty hot food, one eye on the vid display still fast forwarding through the
Idris's lock records. Dubauer, it appeared, had never once left the vessel to so much
as stroll about the station during the whole of the time the ship had been in dock,
until forcibly removed with the other passengers to the stationside hostel by the
quaddies.
Lieutenant Solian had left five times, four of them duty excursions for routine cargo
checks, the fifth, most interestingly, after his work shift on his last day. The vid
showed a good view of the back of his head, departing, and a clear shot of his face,
returning about forty minutes later. Despite freezing the image, Miles could not
certainly identify any of the spots or shadows on Solian's dark-green Barrayaran
military tunic as nose-bloodstains, even in close-up. Solian's expression was set and
frowning as he glanced up straight at the security vid pickup, part of his charge,
after all - perhaps automatically checking its function. The young man didn't look
relaxed, or happy, or as though he were looking forward to some interesting station
leave, although he had been due some. He looked... intent on something.
It was the last documented time Solian had been seen alive. No sign of his body had
been found when Brun's men had searched the Idris the next day, and they had searched
thoroughly, requiring each passenger with cargo, including Dubauer, to unlock their
cabins and holds for inspection. Hence Brun's strongly held theory that Solian must
have smuggled himself out undetected. So where did he go out to, during that forty
minutes he was off the ship? Miles asked in aggravation.
He didn't cross my customs barriers, not unless someone rolled him in a damned
carpet and carried him, said Bel positively. And I don't have a record of anyone
lugging in a carpet. We looked. He had pretty free access to the six loading bays in
that sector, and any ships then in dock. Which were all your four, at the time.
Well, Brun swears he doesn't have vids of him boarding any of the other vessels. I
suppose I'd better check everyone else who entered or left any of the ships during that
period. Solian could have sat down for a quiet, unobserved chat - or more sinister
exchange - with someone in any number of nooks in those loading bays. With or without a
nosebleed.
The bays aren't that closely controlled or patrolled, Bel admitted. We let crew
and passengers use the empty ones for exercise spaces or games, sometimes.
Hm. Someone had certainly used one to play games with that synthesized blood,
later.
After their utilitarian dinner, Miles had Bel conduct him back through the customs
checkpoints to the hostel where the impounded ships' crews were housed. These digs were
notably less luxurious and more crowded than the ones devoted to the paying galactic
passengers, and the edgy crews had been stuck in them for days with nothing but the
holovid and each other for entertainment. Miles was instantly pounced upon by assorted
senior officers, both from the two Toscane Corporation ships and the two independents
caught up in this fracas, demanding to know how soon he was going to obtain their
release. He cut through the hubbub to request interviews with the medtechs assigned to
the four ships, and a quiet room to conduct them in. Some shuffling produced, at
length, a back office and a quartet of nervous Komarrans.
Miles addressed the Idris's medtech first. How hard would it be for an unauthorized
person to gain access to your infirmary?
The man blinked. Not hard at all, Lord Auditor. I mean, it's not locked. In case of
an emergency, people might need to be able to get in right away, without hunting me up.
I might even be the emergency. He paused, then added, A few of my medications and
some equipment are kept in code-locked drawers, with tighter inventory controls, of
course. But for the rest, there's no need. In dock, who comes on and off the ship is
controlled by ship's security, and in space, well, that takes care of itself.
You haven't had trouble with theft, then? Equipment going for a walk, supplies
disappearing?
Very little. I mean, the ship is public, but it's not that kind of public. If you
see what I mean.
The medtechs from the two independent ships reported similar protocols when in space,
but when in dock both were required to keep their little departments secured when they
were not themselves on duty there. Miles reminded himself that one of these people
might have been bribed to cooperate with whoever had undertaken the blood synthesis.
Four suspects, eh. His next inquiry ascertained that all four ship's infirmaries did
indeed keep portable synthesizers in inventory as standard equipment.
If someone snuck in to one of your infirmaries to synthesize some blood, would you
be able to tell that your equipment had been used?
If they cleaned up after themselves... maybe not, said the Idris's tech. Or - how
much blood?
Three to four liters.
The man's anxious face cleared. Oh, yes. That is, if they used my supplies of
phyllopacks and fluids, and didn't bring in their own. I'd have noticed if that much
were gone.
How soon would you notice?
Next time I looked, I suppose. Or at the monthly inventory, if I didn't have
occasion to look before then.
Have you noticed?
No, but - that is, I haven't looked.
Except that a suitably bribed medtech ought to be perfectly capable of fudging the
inventory of such bulky and noncontrolled items. Miles decided to turn up the heat. He
said blandly, The reason I ask is that the blood that was found on the loading bay
floor that kicked off this unfortunate - and expensive - chain of events, while it was
indeed initially DNA typed as Lieutenant Solian's, was found to be synthesized. Quaddie
customs claim to have no record of Solian ever crossing into Graf Station, which
suggests, although it does not alas prove, that the blood might have been synthesized
on the outboard side of the customs barrier too. I think we had better check each of
your supply inventories, next.
The medtech from the Idris's Toscane-owned sister ship, the Rudra, frowned suddenly.
There was - She broke off.
Yes? Miles said encouragingly.
There was that funny passenger, who came in to ask me about my blood synthesizer. I
just figured he was one of the nervous sorts of travelers, although when he explained
himself, I also thought he probably had good reason to be.
Miles smiled carefully. Tell me more about your funny passenger.
He'd just signed on to the Rudra here at Graf Station. He said he was worried, if he
had any accidents en route, because he couldn't take standard blood substitutes on
account of being so heavily gengineered. Which he was. I mean, I believed him about the
blood compatibility problems. That's why we carry the synthesizers, after all. He had
the longest fingers - with webs. He told me he was an amphibian, which I didn't quite
believe, till he showed me his gill slits. His ribs opened out in the most astonishing
fashion. He said he has to keep spraying his gills with moisturizer, when he travels,
because the air on ships and stations is too dry for him. She stopped, and swallowed.
Definitely not Dubauer, then. Hm. Another player? But in the same game, or a
different one?
She continued in a scared voice, I ended up showing him my synthesizer, because he
seemed so worried and kept asking questions about it. I mainly worried about what sorts
of tranquilizers were going to be safe to use on him, if he turned out to be one of
those people who gets hysterical eight days out.
Leaping about and whooping, Miles told himself firmly, would likely just frighten the
young woman more. He did sit up and favor her with a perky smile, which made her shrink
back in her chair only slightly. When was this? What day?
Um... two days before the quaddies made us all evacuate the ship and come here.
Three days after Solian's vanishing. Better and better. What was the passenger's
name? Could you identify him again?'
Oh, sure - I mean, webs, after all. He told me his name was Firka.
As if casually, Miles asked, Would you be willing to repeat this testimony under
fast-penta?
She made a face. I suppose so. Do I have to?
Neither panicked nor too eager; good. We'll see. Physical inventory next, I think.
We'll start with the Rudra's infirmary. And just in case he was being led up the path
by his nose, the others to follow.
More delays ensued, while Bel negotiated over the comconsole with Venn and Watts for
the temporary release from house arrest of the medtechs as expert witnesses. Once those
arrangements had been approved, the visit to the Rudra's infirmary was gratifyingly
short, direct, and fruitful.
The medtech's supply of synthetic blood base was down by four liters. A phyllopack,
with its hundreds of square meters of primed reaction surface stacked in microscopic
layers in a convenient insert, was gone. And the blood synthesizing machine had been
improperly cleaned. Miles smiled toothily as he personally scraped a tinge of organic
residue from its tubing into a plastic bag for the delectation of the Prince Xav's
surgeon.
It all rang sufficiently true that he set Roic to collecting copies of the Rudra's
security records, with particular reference to Passenger Firka, and sent Bel off with
the techs to cross-check the other three infirmaries without him. Miles returned to the
Kestrel and handed off his new sample to Lieutenant Smolyani to convey promptly to the
Prince Xav, then settled down to run a search for Firka's present location. He tracked
him to the second of the two hostels taken up with the impounded ships' passengers, but
the quaddie on security duty there reported that the man had signed out for the evening
before dinner and had not yet returned. Firka's prior venture out that day had been
around the time of the passengers' meeting; perhaps he'd been one of the men in the
back of the room, although Miles certainly hadn't noticed a webbed hand raised for
questions. Miles left orders with quaddie hostel security to call him or Armsman Roic
when the passenger returned, regardless of the time.
Frowning, he called the first hostel to check on Dubauer. The Betan/Cetagandan
herm/ba/whatever had indeed returned safely from the Idris, but had left again after
dinner. Not in itself unusual: few of the trapped passengers stayed in their hostel
when they could vary their evening boredom by seeking entertainment elsewhere on the
station. But hadn't Dubauer just been the person who'd been too frightened to traverse
Graf Station alone without an armed escort? Miles's frown deepened, and he left orders
to this quaddie duty guard to notify him when Dubauer, too, came back.
He rescanned the Idris's security vids on fast forward while waiting Roic's return.
Paused close-up views of the hands of a number of otherwise unexceptionable visitors to
the ship revealed no webs. It was nearing station midnight when Roic and Bel checked
in.
Bel was yawning. Nothing exciting, the herm reported. I think we got it in one. I
sent the medtechs back to the hostel with a security escort to tuck 'em into bed.
What's next?
Miles chewed gently on the side of his finger. Wait for the surgeon to report
identifications on the two samples I sent over to the Prince Xav. Wait for Firka and
Dubauer to return to their hostels, or else go running all over the station looking for
them. Or better yet, make Venn's patrollers do it, except that I don't really want to
divert them from hunting for my assassin till they nail the fellow.
Roic, who had begun to look alarmed, relaxed again. Good thinking, m'lord, he
murmured gratefully.
Sounds like a golden opportunity to sleep, to me, opined Bel.
Miles, to his irritation, was finding Bel's yawns contagious. Miles had never quite
mastered their old mercenary colleague Commodore Tung's formidable ability to sleep
anywhere, any time a break in the action permitted. He was sure he was still too keyed
up to doze. A nap, maybe, he granted grudgingly.
Bel, intelligently, at once seized the chance to go home to Nicol for a time.
Overriding the herm's argument that it was a bodyguard, Miles made Bel take a quaddie
patroller along. Regretfully, Miles decided to wait until he had heard back from the
surgeon to call and wake up Chief Venn; he could not afford mistakes in quaddie eyes.
He cleaned up and lay down himself in his tiny cabin for whatever sleep he could
snatch. If he had a choice between a good night's uninterrupted sleep, and early news,
he'd prefer news.
Venn would presumably let him know at once if Security effected an arrest of the
quaddie with the rivet gun. Some space transfer stations were deliberately designed to
be hard to hide in. Unfortunately, Graf wasn't one of them. Its architecture could only
be described as an agglomeration. It had to be full of forgotten crannies. Best chance
of catching the fellow would be if he attempted to leave; would he be cool enough to go
to some den and lie low, instead? Or, having missed his target the first time - whoever
his target had been - hot enough to circle back for another pass? Smolyani had
disengaged the Kestrel from its lock and taken up position a few meters off the side of
the station, just in case, while the Lord Auditor slept.
Replacing the question of who would want to shoot a harmless elderly Betan herm
shepherding, well, sheep, with the question of who would want to shoot a Cetagandan ba
smuggling a secret human - or superhuman - cargo of inestimable value, at least to the
Star Creche... opened up the range of possible complications in an extremely disturbing
fashion. Miles had already quietly decided that Passenger Firka was due for an early
rendezvous with fast-penta, with quaddie cooperation if Miles could get it, or without.
But, upon reflection, it was doubtful that the truth drug would work on a ba. He
entertained brief, wistful fantasies of older interrogation methods. Something from the
ancestral era of Mad Emperor Yuri, perhaps, or great-great-grandfather Count Pierre Le
Sanguinaire Vorrutyer.
He rolled over in his narrow bunk, conscious of how lonely the silence of his cabin
was without the reassuring rhythmic breath of Ekaterin overhead. He had gradually
become used to that nightly presence. This marriage thing was getting to be a habit,
one of his better ones. He touched the chrono on his wrist, and sighed. She was
probably asleep by now. Too late to call and wake her just to listen to his blither. He
counted over the days to Aral Alexander and Helen Natalia's decanting. Their travel
margin was narrowing each day he fooled around here. His brain was putting together a
twisted jingle to an old nursery tune, something about fast-penta and puppy dog tails
early in the morning, when he mercifully drifted off.
* * *
M'lord?
Miles snapped alert at Roic's voice on the cabin intercom. Yes?
The Prince Xav's surgeon is on the secured comconsole. I told him to hold, you'd
wish to be wakened.
Yes. Miles glanced at the glowing numerals of the wall chrono; he'd been asleep
about four hours. Plenty enough for now. He reached for his jacket. On my way.
Roic, again - no, still - in uniform, waited in the increasingly familiar little
wardroom.
I thought I told you to get some sleep, Miles said. Tomorrow - today, it is now,
could be a long one.
I was checking through the Rudra's security vids, m'lord. Think I might have
something.
All right. Show me them after this, then. He slid into the station chair, powered
up the security cone, and activated the com vid image.
The senior fleet surgeon, who by the collar tabs on his green uniform held a
captain's rank, looked to be one of the young and fit New Men of Emperor Gregor's
progressive reign; by his bright, excited eyes, he wasn't regretting his lost night's
sleep much. My Lord Auditor. Captain Chris Clogston here. I have your blood work.
Excellent. What have you found?
The surgeon leaned forward. The most interesting was the stain on that handkerchief
of yours. I'd say it was Cetagandan haut blood, without question, except that the sex
chromosomes are decidedly odd, and instead of the extra pair of chromosomes where they
usually assemble their genetic modifications, there are two extra pairs.
Miles grinned. Yes! Quite. An experimental model. Cetagandan haut indeed, but this
one is a ba - genderless - and almost certainly from the Star Creche itself. Freeze a
portion of that sample and mark it top secret, and send it along home to ImpSec's
biolabs by the first available courier, with my compliments. I'm sure they'll want it
on file.
Yes, my lord.
No wonder Dubauer had tried to retrieve that bloodied handkerchief. Quite aside from
blowing its cover, high-level Star Creche gene work was not the sort of thing the haut
ladies cared to have circulating at large, not unless they'd released it themselves,
filtered through a few select Cetagandan ghem clans via their haut trophy wives and
mothers. Granted, the haut ladies saved their greatest vigilance for the genes they
gated in to their well-guarded genome, generations-long work of art that it was. Miles
wondered how tidy a profit one might make, offering pirate copies of those cells he'd
inadvertently collected. Or maybe not - this ba wasn't, clearly, their latest work. A
near-century out of date, in fact.
Their latest work lay in the hold of the Idris. Urk.
The other sample, Clogston went on, was Solian II - that is, Lieutenant Solian's
synthesized blood. Identical to the earlier specimen - same batch, I'd say.
Good! Now we're getting somewhere. Where, for God's sake? Thank you, Captain. This
is invaluable. Go get some sleep, you've earned it.
The surgeon, disappointment writ plainly on his face at this dismissal without
further explication, signed off.
Miles turned back to Roic in time to catch him stifling a yawn. The armsman looked
embarrassed, and sat up straighter.
So what do we have? Miles prompted.
Roic cleared his throat. The passenger Firka actually joined the Rudra after it was
first due to leave, during that delay for repairs.
Huh. Suggests it wasn't part of a long-laid itinerary, then... maybe. Go on.
I've filtered out quite a few records of the fellow passing on and off the ship,
before it was impounded and the passengers evicted. Using his cabin as his hostel, it
seems, which a lot of folks do to save money. Two of his trips bracket times Lieutenant
Solian was away from the Idris - one overlaps his last routine cargo inspection, and
t'other exactly brackets that last forty minutes we can't account for.
Oh, very nice. So what does this self-declared amphibian look like?
Roic fiddled a moment with the console and brought up a clear full-length shot from
the Rudra's lock vid records.
The man was tall, with pale unhealthy-looking skin and dark hair shaved close to his
skull in a patchy, unflattering fuzz, like lichen on a boulder. Big nose, small ears, a
lugubrious expression on his rubbery face - he looked strung out, actually, eyes dark
and ringed. Long, skinny arms and legs; a loose tunic or poncho concealed the details
of his big upper torso. His hands and feet were especially distinctive, and Miles
zoomed in for close-ups. One hand was half-concealed in a cloth glove with the
fingertips cut out, which hid the webs from a casual glance, but the other was ungloved
and half-raised, and the webs showed distinctly, a dark rose color between the over-
long fingers. The feet were concealed in soft boots or buskins, tied at the ankles, but
they too were about double the length of a normal foot, though no wider. Could the
fellow spread his webbed toes, when in the water, as he spread his webbed fingers, to
make a broad flipper?
He recalled Ekaterin's description of the passenger who had accosted her and Bel on
their outing, that first day - he had the longest, narrowest hands and feet. Bel should
get a look at this shortly. Miles let the vid run. The fellow had a somewhat shambling
gate when he walked, lifting and setting down those almost clownish feet.
Where did he come from? Miles asked Roic.
His documentation claims he's an Aslunder. Roic's voice was heavy with disbelief.
Aslund was one of Barrayar's fairly near Nexus neighbors, an impoverished
agricultural world in a local space cul-de-sac off the Hegen Hub. Huh. Almost our neck
of the woods.
I dunno, m'lord. His Graf Station customs records show him disembarking from a ship
he'd joined at Tau Ceti, which arrived here on the day before our fleet was originally
due to leave. Don't know if he originated there or not.
I'd bet not. Was there a water-world being settled somewhere on the fringes of the
Nexus, whose colonists had chosen to alter their children instead of their environment?
Miles hadn't heard of one, but it had to happen sometime. Or was Firka a one-off
project, an experiment or prototype of some sort? He'd certainly run into a few of
those, before. Neither exactly squared with an origin on Aslund. Though he might have
immigrated there... Miles made a note to request an ImpSec background search on the
fellow in his next report, even though any results were likely to trickle back too late
to be of any immediate use. At least, he certainly hoped he'd have this mess wrapped up
and shipped out before then.
He originally tried to get a berth on the Idris, but there wasn't room, Roic added.
Ah! Or maybe that ought to be, Huh?
Miles sat back in his station chair, eyes narrowing. Reasoning in advance of his
beloved and much-longed-for fast-penta - posit that this peculiar individual had had
some personal contact with Solian before the lieutenant went missing. Posit that he had
acquired, somehow, a sample of Solian's blood, perhaps in much the same accidental way
that Miles had acquired Dubauer's. Why, then, in the name of reason, would he have
subsequently gone to the trouble of running up a fake sample of Solian's blood and
dribbling it all over a loading bay and out the airlock?
To cover up a murder elsewhere? Solian's disappearance had already been put down to
desertion, by his own commanders. No cover needed: if a murder, it was already nearly
the perfect crime at that point, with the investigation about to be abandoned.
A frame? Meant to pin Solian's murder on another? Attractive, but in that case,
shouldn't some innocent have been tracked and accused by now? Unless Firka was the
innocent, it was a frame with no portrait in it, at present.
To cover up a desertion? Might Firka and Solian be collaborating on Solian's
defection? Or... when might a desertion not be a desertion? When it was an ImpSec
covert ops scam, that's when. Except that Solian was Service Security, not ImpSec: a
guard, not a spy or trained agent. Still... a sufficiently bright, loyal, highly
motivated, and ambitious officer, finding himself in some complex imbroglio, might not
wait for orders from on high to pursue a fast-moving long shot. As Miles had reason to
know.
Of course, taking risky chances like that could get such an officer killed. As Miles
also had reason to know.
Regardless of intent, what had the actual effect of the blood bait been? Or what
would it have been if Corbeau and Garnet Five's star-crossed romance hadn't run afoul
of Barrayaran prejudices and loutishness? The showy scarlet scenario on the loading bay
deck would certainly have reaffixed official attention upon Solian's disappearance; it
would almost certainly have delayed the fleet's departure, although not as
spectacularly as the real events had. Assuming Garnet Five and Corbeau's problems had
been accidental. She was an actress of sorts, after all. They had only Corbeau's word
about his wrist com.
He said wistfully, I don't suppose we have a clear shot of this frog-man lugging out
half a dozen liter jugs at any point?
Afraid not, m'lord. He went back and forth with lots of packages and boxes at
various times, though; they could well have been hid inside something.
Gah. The acquisition of facts was supposed to clarify thought. This was just getting
murkier and murkier. He asked Roic, Has quaddie security from either of the hostels
called yet? Are Dubauer or Firka back yet?
No, m'lord. No calls, that is.
Miles called both to cross-check; neither of his two passengers of interest had yet
returned. It was over four hours after midnight, now, 0420 on the twenty-four-hour,
Earth-descended clock that Quaddiespace still kept, generations after their ancestors'
unmodified ancestors had departed the home world.
After he'd cut the com, Miles asked querulously, So where the hell have they gone,
all night?
Roic shrugged. If it was t' obvious thing, I wouldn't look for them to be back till
breakfast.
Miles considerately declined to take notice of Roic's distinct blush. Our frog-man,
maybe, but I guarantee the ba didn't go looking for feminine companionship. There's
nothing obvious about any of this. Decisively, Miles reached for the call pad again.
Instead of Chief Venn, the image of a quaddie woman in a Security gray uniform
appeared against the dizzying radial background of Venn's office. Miles wasn't sure
what her rank markings decoded to, but she looked sensible, middle-aged, and harried
enough to be fairly senior.
Good morning, he began politely. Where's Chief Venn?
Sleeping, I hope. The expression on her face suggested she was going to do her
loyal best to keep it that way, too.
At a time like this?
The poor man had a double shift and a half yester... She squinted at him, and
seemed to come to some recognition. Oh. Lord Auditor Vorkosigan. I'm Chief Venn's
third-shift supervisor, Teris Three. Is there anything I can do for you?
Night duty officer, eh? Very good. Yes, please. I wish to arrange for the detainment
and interrogation, possibly with fast-penta, of a passenger from the Rudra. His name's
Firka.
Is there some criminal charge you wish to file?
Material witness, to start. I have found reason to suspect he may have something to
do with the blood on the floor of the docking bay that started this mess. I want very
much to find out for sure.
Sir, we can't just go around arresting and drugging anyone we please, here. We need
a formal charge. And if the transient doesn't volunteer to be interrogated, you'll have
to get an adjudicator's order for the fast-penta.
That problem, Miles decided, he would bounce to Sealer Greenlaw. It sounded like her
department. All right, I charge him with suspected littering. Incorrect disposal of
organics has to be some kind of illegal, here.
Despite herself, the corner of her mouth twitched. It's a misdemeanor. Yes, that
would do, she admitted.
Any pretext that will fix it for you is all right by me. I want him, and I want him
as quickly as you can lay hands on him. Unfortunately, he signed out of his hostel at
about seventeen-hundred yesterday, and hasn't been seen since.
Our security work gang is seriously overstretched, here, on account of
yesterday's... unfortunate incident. Can this wait till morning, Lord Auditor
Vorkosigan?
No.
For a moment, he thought she was going to go all bureaucratic on him, but after
screwing up her lips in a thoughtfully aggravated way for a moment, she relented. Very
well. I'll put out a detention order on him, pending Chief Venn's review. But you'll
have to see to the adjudicator as soon as we pick him up.
Thank you. I promise you won't have any trouble recognizing him. I can download IDs
and some vid shots to you from here, if you wish.
She allowed as how that would be useful, and the task was done.
Miles hesitated, mulling over the even more disturbing dilemma of Dubauer. There was
not, to be sure, any obvious connection between the two problems. Yet. Perhaps the
interrogation of Firka would reveal one?
Leaving Venn's myrmidon to get on with it, Miles cut the com. He leaned back in his
station chair for a moment, then brought up the vids of Firka and reran them a couple
of times.
So, he said after a time. How the devil did he keep those long, floppy feet out of
the blood puddles?
Roic stared over his shoulder. Floater? he finally said. He'd have to be damned
near double-jointed to fold those legs up in one, though.
He looks damned near double-jointed. But if Firka's toes were as long and
prehensile as his fingers suggested, might he have been able to manipulate the joystick
controls, designed for quaddie lower hands, with his feet? In this new scenario, Miles
needn't picture the person in the floater horsing a heavy body around, merely emptying
his gurgling liter jugs overboard and supplying some artistic smears with a suitable
rag.
After a few cross-eyed moments trying to imagine this, Miles dumped Firka's vid shots
into an image manipulator and installed the fellow in a floater. The supposed amphibian
didn't quite have to be double-jointed or break his legs to fit in. Assuming his lower
body was rather more flexible than Miles's or Roic's, it folded pretty neatly. It
looked a bit painful, but possible.
Miles stared harder at the image above the vid plate.
The first question one addressed in describing a person on Graf Station wasn't man
or woman? It was quaddie or downsider? The very first cut, by which one discarded
half or more of the possibilities from further consideration.
He pictured a blond quaddie in a dark jacket, speeding up a corridor in a floater. He
pictured that quaddie's belated pursuers, whizzing past a shaven-headed downsider in
light garb, walking the other way. That was all it would take, in a sufficiently
harried moment. Step out of the floater, turn one's jacket inside out, stuff the wig in
a pocket, leave the machine with a couple of others sitting waiting, stroll away... It
would be much harder to work it the other way around, of course, for a quaddie to
impersonate a downsider.
He stared at Firka's hollow, dark-ringed eyes. He pulled up a suitable mop of blond
ringlets from the imager files and applied it to Firka's unhandsome head.
A fair approximation of the dark-eyed barrel-chested quaddie with the rivet gun?
Glimpsed for a fraction of a second, at fifteen meters range, and truth to tell most of
Miles's attention had been on the spark-spitting, chattering, hot-brass-chucking object
in his hands... had those hands been webbed?
Fortunately, he could draw upon a second opinion. He called up Bel Thorne's home code
from the comconsole.
Unsurprisingly, at this ungodly hour, the visual didn't come on when Nicol's sleepy
voice answered. Hello?
Nicol? Miles Vorkosigan here. Sorry to drag you out of your sleep sack. I need to
talk to your housemate. Boot it out and make it come to the vid. Bel's had more sleep
than I have, by now.
The visual came up. Nicol righted herself and drew a fluffy lace garment closer about
her with a lower hand; this section of the apartment she shared with Bel was evidently
on the free fall side. It was too dim to make out much beyond her floating form. She
rubbed her eyes. What? Isn't Bel with you?
Miles's stomach went into free fall, for all that the Kestrel's grav was in good
working order. No... Bel left over six hours ago.
Her frown sharpened. The sleep drained from her face, to be replaced by alarm. But
Bel didn't come home last night!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Graf Station Security Post One, housing most of the security police administrative
offices including Chief Venn's, lay entirely on the free fall side of the station.
Miles and Roic, trailed by a flustered quaddie guard from the Kestrel's lock, floated
into the post's radially arranged reception space, from which tubular corridors led off
at odd angles. The place was still night-quiet, although shift change was surely due
soon.
Nicol had beaten Miles and Roic there, but not by much. She was still awaiting the
arrival of Chief Venn under the concerned eye of a uniformed quaddie whom Miles took to
be the equivalent of a night desk sergeant. The quaddie officer's wariness increased
when they entered, and one lower hand moved unobtrusively to touch a pad on his
console; as if casually, and very promptly, another armed quaddie officer drifted down
from one of the corridors to join his comrade.
Nicol wore a plain blue T-shirt and shorts, hastily donned with no artistic touches.
Her face was pale with worry. Her lower hands clenched each other. She returned a short
grateful nod to Miles's under-voiced greeting.
Chief Venn arrived at last and gave Miles a look unloving but resigned. He had
apparently slept, if not enough, and had pessimistically dressed for the day; no secret
hope of getting back into the sleep sack showed in his neat attire. He waved off the
armed guard and gruffly invited the Lord Auditor and company to follow him to his
office. The third-shift supervisor Miles had spoken with a while ago - might as well
start calling it last night - brought coffee bulbs along with her end-of-shift report.
Meticulously, she handed the bulbs out to the downsiders, instead of launching them
through the air and expecting them to be caught the way she served her crew chief and
Nicol. Miles turned the bulb's thermal control to the limit of the red zone and sucked
the hot bitter brew with gratitude, as did Roic.
This panic may be premature, Venn began after his own first swallow. Portmaster
Thorne's nonappearance may have some very simple explanation.
And what were the top three complicated explanations in Venn's mind right now? The
quaddie wasn't sharing, but then, neither was Miles. Bel had been missing for over six
hours, ever since it had dismissed its quaddie guard at a bubble-car stop near its
home. By now this panic might just as easily be posthumous, but Miles didn't care to
say so aloud in front of Nicol. I am extremely concerned.
Thorne could be asleep somewhere else. Venn glanced somewhat enigmatically at
Nicol. Have you checked with likely friends?
The portmaster stated explicitly that it was heading home to Nicol to rest, when it
left the Kestrel about midnight, said Miles. A well-earned rest by that time, I might
add. Your own guards should be able to confirm the exact time of Thorne's departure
from my ship.
We will, of course, provide you with another liaison officer to assist you in your
inquiries, Lord Vorkosigan. Venn's voice was a little distant; buying time to think,
was how Miles read him. He might be playing deliberately obtuse as well. Miles did not
mistake him for actually obtuse, not when he'd cut his sleep shift short and come in
for this within little more than minutes.
I don't want another. I want Thorne. You mislay too damned many downsiders around
here. It's beginning to seem bloody careless. Miles took a deep breath. It has to
have crossed your mind by now, as it has mine, that there were three persons in the
line of fire in the hostel lobby yesterday afternoon. We all assumed that I was the
obvious target. What if it was something less obvious? What if it was Thorne?
Teris Three made a stemming motion at him with an upper hand, and interjected,
Speaking of that, the trace on that hot riveter came in a few hours ago.
Oh, good, said Venn, turning to her with relief. What have we got?
It was sold for cash three days back, from an engineering supply store near the free
fall docks. Carried out, not delivered. The purchaser didn't fill out the warranty
questionnaire. The clerk wasn't sure which customer took it, because it was a busy
hour.
Quaddie or downsider?
He couldn't say. Could have been either, it seems.
And if certain webbed hands had been covered with gloves as in the vid shot, they
might well have been overlooked. Venn grimaced, his hopes for a break plainly
frustrated.
The night supervisor glanced at Miles. Lord Vorkosigan here also called, to request
that we detain one of the passengers from the Rudra.
Find him yet? asked Miles.
She shook her head.
Why do you want him? asked Venn, frowning.
Miles repeated his own night's news about his interrogation of the medtechs and
finding traces of Solian's synthesized blood in the Rudra's infirmary.
Well, that explains why we were having no luck at the station hospitals and
clinics, grumbled Venn. Miles imagined him totting up his department's wasted quaddie-
hours from the fruitless search, and let the grumble pass.
I also flushed out one suspect, in the course of the conversation with the Rudra's
tech. All circumstantial speculation so far, but fast-penta is the drug to cure that.
Miles described the unusual Passenger Firka, his own insufficient but nagging sense of
recognition, and his suspicions about the creative use of a floater. Venn looked
grimmer and grimmer. Just because Venn reflexively resisted being stampeded by a
Barrayaran dirtsucker, Miles decided, didn't mean he wasn't listening. What he made of
it all, through his provincial Quaddiespace cultural filters, was much harder to guess.
But what about Bel? Nicol's voice was tight with suppressed anguish.
Venn was obviously less immune to a plea from a beautiful fellow quaddie. He met his
night supervisor's inquiring look and nodded agreement.
Well, what's one more? Teris Three shrugged. I'll put out a call to all patrollers
to start looking for Portmaster Thorne, too. As well as the fellow with the webs.
Miles nibbled on his lower lip in worry. Sooner or later, that live cargo secreted
aboard the Idris must draw the ba back to it. Bel - Portmaster Thorne did get back to
you people last night about resealing the Idris, did it not?
Yes, said Venn and the night supervisor together. Venn gave her a short apologetic
nod and continued, Did that Betan passenger Thorne was trying to help get its animal
fetuses taken care of all right?
Dubauer. Um, yes. They're fine for now. But, ah... I think I'd like to have you pick
up Dubauer, as well as Firka.
Why?
It left its hostel and vanished yesterday evening close to the same time that Firka
went out, and also hasn't returned. And Dubauer was the third of our little triumvirate
of targets yesterday. Let's just call it protective custody, for starters.
Venn screwed up his lips for a moment, considering this, and eyed Miles with shrewd
disfavor. He'd have to be less bright than he appeared not to suspect Miles wasn't
telling him everything. Very well, he said at last. He waved a hand at Teris Three.
Let's go ahead and collect the whole set.
Right. She glanced at the chrono on her left lower wrist. It's oh-seven-hundred.
Shift change, presumably. Shall I stay?
No, no. I'll take over. Get the new missing-person traces started, then go get some
rest. Venn sighed. Tonight may be no better.
The night supervisor gave him an acknowledging thumbs-up with both lower hands and
slipped out of the little office chamber.
Would you prefer to wait at home? Venn said suggestively to Nicol. You'd be more
comfortable there, I'm sure. We'll undertake to call you as soon as we find your
partner.
Nicol took a breath. I would rather be here, she said sturdily. Just in case...
just in case something happens soon.
I'll keep you company, Miles volunteered. For a little while, anyway. There, let
Venn try to shift his diplomatic mass.
Venn at least managed to get them shifted out of his office by conducting them to a
private waiting space, advertising it as more undisturbed. More undisturbed for Venn,
anyway.
Miles and Nicol were left regarding each other in troubled silence. What Miles most
wanted to know was if Bel had any other ImpSec business in train at present that might
have impinged unexpectedly last night. But he was almost certain Nicol knew nothing of
Bel's second source of income - and risk. Besides, that was wishful thinking. If any
business had impinged, it was most probably the current mess. Which was now messy
enough to raise every hackle Miles owned to quivering attention.
Bel had escaped its former career very nearly unscathed, despite Admiral Naismith's
sometimes-lethal nimbus. For the Betan herm to have come all this way, to have come so
close to regaining a private life and future, only to have its past reach out like some
blind fate and swat it down now... Miles swallowed guilt and worry, and refrained from
blurting some ill-timed and incoherent apology to Nicol. Something had certainly come
upon Bel last night, but Bel was quick and clever and experienced; Bel could cope. Bel
had always coped before.
But even the luck you made for yourself ran out sometimes....
Nicol broke the stretched silence by asking some random question of Roic about
Barrayar, and the armsman returned clumsy but kind small talk to distract her from her
nerves. Miles glanced at his wrist com. Was it too early to call Ekaterin?
What the bloody hell was next on his agenda, anyway? He'd planned to spend this
morning conducting fast-penta interrogations. All the threads he'd thought he'd had in
hand, winding in nicely, had come to these disturbingly similar cut ends; Firka
vanished, Dubauer vanished, and now Bel vanished too. And Solian, don't forget him.
Graf Station, for all its maze-like non-design, wasn't that big a place. Were they all
sucked into the same oubliette? How many oubliettes could the damned labyrinth have?
To his surprise, his frustrated fretting was interrupted by the night supervisor
sticking her head in through one of the round doors. Hadn't she been leaving?
Lord Auditor Vorkosigan, may we see you for a moment? she asked in a polite tone.
He excused himself to Nicol and floated after her, Roic trailing dutifully. She led
the way back through a corridor to Venn's nearby office. Venn was finishing up a
comconsole call, saying, He's here, he's hot, and he's all over me. It's your job to
handle him. He glanced over his shoulder and cut the com. Above the vid plate, Miles
just glimpsed Sealer Greenlaw's form, wrapped in what might be a bathrobe, vanish with
a sparkle.
When the door hissed closed again behind them, the supervisor turned in midair and
stated, The patroller that you detailed to escort Postmaster Thorne last night reports
that Thorne dismissed him when they got to the Joint.
The what? said Miles. When? Why?
She glanced at Venn, who opened a hand in a go-ahead gesture. The Joint is one of
our main corridor hubs on the free fall side, with a bubble-car transfer station and a
public garden - a lot of people meet there, to eat or whatever after their work shifts.
Thorne evidently encountered Garnet Five at about oh-one-hundred, coming the other way,
and went off to have some kind of conversation.
Yes? They're friends, I believe.
Venn shifted in what Miles recognized after a belated moment as embarrassment, and
said, Do you happen to know how good of friends? I didn't wish to discuss this in
front of that distressed young lady. But Garnet Five is known to, um, favor exotic
downsiders, and the Betan herm is, after all, a Betan herm. Simple explanations, after
all.
Half a dozen mildly outraged arguments coursed through Miles's mind, to be promptly
rejected. He wasn't supposed to know Bel that well. Not that someone who did know Bel
would be in the least shocked by Venn's delicate suggestion... no. Bel's sexual tastes
might be eclectic, but the herm wasn't the sort to betray the trust of a friend. Had
never been. We all change. You might ask Boss Watts, he temporized. He caught Roic's
rolling eye and head-jerk in the direction of Venn's comconsole, affixed to the curving
office wall. Miles continued smoothly, Better still, call Garnet Five. If Thorne's
there, the mystery is solved. If not, she might at least know where Thorne was headed.
He tried to decide which would be the worse cause for dismay. The memory of the hot
rivets parting his hair inclined him to hope for the first result, despite Nicol.
Venn opened an upper hand in acknowledgment of the point, and half-turned to tap out
a search-code on his comconsole with a lower. Miles's heart jumped as Garnet Five's
serene face and crisp voice came on, but it was only an answering program. Venn's brows
twitched; he left a brief request that she contact him at her earliest convenience, and
cut the com.
She could just be asleep, said the night-shift woman wistfully.
Send a patroller to check, said Miles a little tightly. Remembering he was supposed
to be a diplomat, he added, If you please.
Teris Three, looking as though a vision of her sleep sack was receding before her
eyes, departed again. Miles and Roic returned to Nicol, who turned anxious eyes upon
them as they floated back into the waiting chamber. Miles barely hesitated before
reporting the patroller's sighting to her.
Can you think of any reason for them to have met? he asked her.
Lots, she answered without reserve, confirming Miles's secret judgment. I'm sure
she'd want news from Bel about Ensign Corbeau, or anything happening that might affect
his chances. If she crossed trajectories with Bel coming home through the Joint, she'd
be sure to grab the chance to try to get some news. Or she might have just wanted an
ear to vent at. Most of her other friends are not too sympathetic about her romance,
after the Barrayaran attack and the fire.
All right, that might account for the first hour. But no more. Bel was tired. Then
what?
She turned all four hands out in helpless frustration. I can't imagine.
Miles's own imagination was all too wildly active. Need data dammit was becoming his
private mantra here. He left Roic to make more distracting small talk with Nicol and,
feeling a trifle selfish, took himself to the side of the chamber to call Ekaterin on
his wrist com.
Her voice was sleepy but cheerful, and she stoutly maintained that she'd been awake
already, and just about to get up. They exchanged a few verbal caresses that were no
one's business but their own, and he described what he'd found as a result of the
gossip she'd collected about Solian's nosebleeds, which seemed to please her greatly.
So where are you now, and what have you had for breakfast? she asked.
Breakfast is delayed. I'm at the Station Security HQ. He hesitated. Bel Thorne
went missing last night, and they're putting together a search for it.
A little silence greeted this, and her return remark was as carefully neutral in tone
as his own. Oh. That's very worrisome.
Yes.
You are keeping Roic with you at all times, aren't you?
Oh, yes. The quaddies have armed guards trailing me around now, too.
Good. Her breath drew in. Good.
The situation's getting pretty murky over here. I may have to send you home after
all. We have four more days to decide, though.
Well. In four more days we can talk about it, then.
Between his desire not to alarm her further, and hers not to distract him unduly, the
conversation grew limping, and he mercifully tore himself from the calming sound of her
voice to let her go bathe and dress and obtain her own breakfast.
He wondered if he and Roic ought, after all, to escort Nicol home, and perhaps after
that try quartering the station themselves in the hope of some random encounter. Now,
there was a tactically bankrupt plan if ever he'd evolved one. Roic would have a fully
justifiable, painfully polite fit at the suggestion. It would feel just like old times.
But suppose there was some way to make it less random...
The night supervisor's voice floated in from the corridor. Dear God, was the poor
woman never to get home to sleep? Yes, they're in here, but don't you think you ought
to see the medtech next to -
I have to see Lord Vorkosigan!
Miles jerked to full alertness as he identified the sharp, breathless female voice as
Garnet Five's. The blond quaddie practically tumbled through the round door from the
corridor. She was trembling and haggard, almost greenish, an unpleasant contrast to her
rumpled carmine doublet. Her eyes, huge and dark-ringed, flicked over the waiting trio.
Nicol, oh, Nicol! She flew to her friend in a fierce three-armed hug, the immobilized
fourth wavering slightly.
Nicol, looking bewildered, dutifully hugged her back, but then pushed her away and
asked urgently, Garnet, have you seen Bel?
Yes. No. I'm not sure. This is just insane. I thought we were both knocked out
together, but when I came to, Bel wasn't there any more. I thought Bel might have waked
up first and gone for help, but the security crew - she nodded to her escort - says
not. Haven't you heard anything?
Came to? Wait - who knocked you out? Where? Are you hurt?
I have the most horrible headache. It was some sort of drug mist. Icy cold. It
didn't smell like anything, but it tasted bitter. He sprayed it in our faces. Bel
yelled, 'Don't breathe, Garnet!' but of course had to breathe to yell. I felt Bel go
all limp, and then everything sort of drained away. When I woke up, I was so sick I
almost threw up, ugh!
Nicol and Teris Three both grimaced in sympathy. Miles gathered this was the security
woman's second time through this recitation, but her focus didn't flag.
Garnet, Miles interjected, please, take a deep breath, calm down, and begin at the
beginning. A patroller reported he saw you and Bel somewhere in the Joint last night.
Is that correct?
Garnet Five scrubbed her pallid face with her upper hands, inhaled, and blinked; a
little returning color relieved her gray-greenness. Yes. I bumped into Bel coming out
of the bubble-car stop. I wanted to know if Bel had asked - if you'd said anything - if
anything had been decided about Dmitri.
Nicol nodded in bleak satisfaction.
I bought us those peppermint teas that Bel likes at the Kabob Kiosk, hoping to get
it to talk to me. But we hadn't been there five minutes when Bel went all distracted by
this other pair who came in. One was a quaddie Bel knew from the Docks and Locks crew -
Bel said he was someone it'd been keeping an eye on, because it suspected him of
handling stolen stuff from the ships. The other was this really funny-looking
downsider.
Tall, lanky fellow with webbed hands and long feet, and a big barrel chest? Looks
sort of like his mother might have married the Frog Prince, but the kiss didn't quite
work out? Miles asked.
Garnet Five stared. Why, yes. Well, I'm not sure about the chest - he was wearing
this loose, flippy cape-thing. How did you know?
This is about the third time he's turned up in this case. You might say he's riveted
my attention. But go on, then what?
I couldn't get Bel to stay on the subject. Bel made me turn around and sit facing
the pair, so Bel could keep its back to them, and made me report what they were doing.
I felt silly, like we were playing spies.
No, not playing....
They had some sort of argument, then the quaddie from Dock and Locks spotted Bel and
left in a hurry. The other fellow, the funny downsider, left too, and then Bel insisted
on following him.
And Bel left the bistro?
We both left together. I wasn't going to be dumped, and besides, Bel said, Oh, all
right, come along, you may be useful. I think the downsider must have been some sort of
spacer, because he wasn't as awkward as most tourists usually are on the free fall
side. I didn't think he saw us, following, but he must have, because he wandered down
Cross Corridor, weaving in and out of any shops that were open at that hour but not
buying anything. Then he suddenly zigzagged over to the portal to the grav side. There
weren't any floaters in the rack, so Bel boosted me onto its back and kept on after the
fellow. He ducked into this utility section, where the shops on the next corridor -
over on the grav side - move freight and supplies in and out of their back doors. He
seemed to vanish around a corner, but then he just popped out in front of us and waved
this little tube in our faces, that spit out that nasty spray. I was afraid it was a
poison, and we were both dead, but evidently not. She hesitated in stricken doubt.
Anyway, I woke up.
Where? asked Miles.
There. Well, not quite there - I was all in a heap stuck to the floor inside a
recycle bin behind one of the shops, on top of a bundle of cartons. It wasn't locked,
fortunately. That horrible downsider couldn't have stuffed me into it if it had been, I
suppose. I had a bad time trying to climb out. The stupid lid kept pressing down. It
almost smashed my fingers. I hate gravity. Bel wasn't anywhere around. I looked, and
called. And then I had to walk on three hands back to the main corridor, till I could
find help. I grabbed the first patroller I came to, and she brought me right here.
You must have been out cold for six or seven hours, then, Miles calculated aloud.
How different were quaddie metabolisms from those of Betan herms? Not to mention body
mass, and the erratic dosage inhaled by two variously dodging persons. You should be
seen by a physician right away, and get a blood sample drawn while there are still
traces of the drug in your system. We might be able to identify it, and maybe its place
of origin, if it isn't just a local product.
The night supervisor endorsed this idea emphatically, and permitted the downsider
visitors, as well as Nicol, to whom Garnet Five still clung, to trail along as she
escorted the shaken blond quaddie to the post's infirmary. When Miles had assured
himself that Garnet Five had been taken into competent medical hands, and plenty of
them, he turned back to Teris Three.
It isn't just my airy theories any more, he told her. You have a valid assault
charge on this Firka fellow. Can't you step up the search?
Oh, yes, she answered grimly. This one's going out on all the com channels, now.
He attacked a quaddie. And he released toxic volatiles into the public air.
Miles left the two quaddie women safely ensconced in the security post's infirmary.
He then leaned on the night supervisor to supply him with the patroller who'd brought
in Garnet Five to take him on an inspection of the scene of the crime, such as it was.
The supervisor temporized, more delays ensued, and Miles harassed Crew Chief Venn in a
nearly undiplomatic manner. But at length, he was issued a different quaddie patroller
who did indeed escort him and Roic to the spot where Garnet Five had been so
uncomfortably cached.
The dimly lit utility corridor had a flat floor and squared-off walls, and while not
exactly cramped, shared its cross section with a great deal of duct work, which Roic
had to bend to avoid. Around an obliquely angled turn, they found three quaddies, one
in a Security uniform and two in shorts and shirts, working behind a stretched-out
plastic ribbon printed with the Graf Station Security logo. Forensics techs at last,
and about time. The young male rode in a floater broadly stenciled with a Graf Station
technical school identification number. An intent-looking middle-aged female piloted a
floater that bore the mark of one of the station clinics.
The shorts-and-shirt man in the tech school floater, hovering carefully, finished a
laser scan for fingerprints along the edge and top of a large square bin sticking out
into the corridor at a convenient height to bang the shins of the unwary passerby. He
moved aside, and his colleague moved into place and began to run over the surfaces with
what looked to be a standard sort of skin cell- and fiber-collecting hand-vac.
Was that the bin where Garnet Five was hidden? Miles asked the quaddie officer who
was supervising.
Yes.
Miles leaned forward, only to be waved back by the intently vacuuming tech. After
extracting promises to be informed of any interesting cross-matches in the evidence, he
strolled up and down the corridor instead, hands scrupulously tucked in his pockets,
looking for... what? Cryptic messages written in blood on the walls? Or in ink, or
spit, or snot, or something. He checked the floor, ceiling, and ducts, too, at Bel-
height and lower, angling his head to catch odd reflections. Nothing.
Were all these doors locked? he asked the patroller who shadowed them. Have they
been checked yet? Could someone have bunged Bel - dragged Portmaster Thorne inside
one?
You'll have to ask the officer in charge, sir, the quaddie guard replied,
exasperation leaking into his service-issue neutral tone. I only just got here with
you.
Miles stared at the doors and their key pads in frustration. He couldn't very well go
down the row trying them all, not unless the scanner man was finished. He returned to
the bin.
Finding anything? he inquired.
Not - The medical quaddie glanced aside at the officer in charge. Was this area
swept before I got here?
Not as far as I know, ma'am, said the officer.
Why do you ask? Miles inquired instantly.
Well, there isn't very much. I would have expected more.
Try further away, suggested the scanner tech.
She cast him a somewhat bemused look. That's not quite the point. In any case, after
you. She gestured down the corridor, and Miles hurriedly confided his worries about
the doors to the officer in charge.
The crew dutifully scanned everything, including, at Miles's insistence, the ductwork
above, where the assailant might have braced himself in near-concealment to drop upon
his victims. They tried each door. Fingers tapping impatiently on his trouser seam,
Miles followed them up and down the corridor as they completed their survey. All doors
proved locked... at least, they were now. One hissed open as they passed, and a
blinking shopkeeper with legs poked his head through; the quaddie officer interrogated
him briefly, and he in turn helped rouse his neighbors to cooperate in the search. The
quaddie woman collected lots of little plastic bags of nothing much. No unconscious
hermaphrodite was discovered in any bin, hallway, utility closet, or shop adjoining the
passageway.
The utility corridor ran for about another ten meters before opening discreetly into
a broader cross-corridor lined with shops, offices, and a small restaurant. The scene
would have been quieter partway into third shift last night, but by no means reliably
deserted, and just as well lit. Miles pictured the lanky Firka lugging or dragging
Bel's compact but substantial form down the public way... wrapped in something for
concealment? It would almost have to be. It would take a strong man to lug Bel far.
Or... someone in a floater. Not necessarily a quaddie.
Roic, looming at his shoulder, sniffed. The spicy smells wafting into the corridor,
into which the eatery cannily vented its bakery ovens, reminded Miles of his duty to
feed his troops. Troop. The disgruntled quaddie guard could fend for himself, Miles
decided.
The place was small, clean, and cozy, the sort of cheap cafe where the local working
people ate. It was evidently past the breakfast rush and not yet time for lunch,
because it was occupied only by a couple of legged young men who might be shop
assistants, and a quaddie in a floater who, judging by her crowded tool belt, was an
electrician on break. They stared covertly at the Barrayarans - more at tall Roic in
his not-from-around-here brown-and-silver uniform than at short Miles in his
unobtrusive gray civvies. Their quaddie security guard distanced himself slightly -
with their party but not of it - and ordered coffee in a bulb.
A legged woman doubled as server and cook, assembling food on the plates with
practiced speed. The spicy breads, apparently a specialty of the place, appeared
handmade, the slices of vat protein unexceptionable, and the fresh fruit startlingly
exquisite. Miles selected a large golden pear, its skin touched with a rose blush,
unblemished; its flesh, when he cut into it, proved pale, perfect, and dripping with
perfumed juice. If only they had more time, he'd love to sic Ekaterin onto the local
agriculture - whatever plant-like matrix this had grown from had to have been
genetically engineered to thrive in free fall. The Empire's space stations could use
such stocks - if the Komarran traders hadn't snagged them already. Miles's plan to slip
seeds into his pocket to smuggle home was thwarted by the fruit being seedless.
A holovid in the corner with the sound turned low had been mumbling to itself,
ignored by everyone, but a sudden rainbow of blinking lights advertised an official
safety bulletin. Heads turned briefly, and Miles followed the stares to find being
displayed the shots of Passenger Firka from the Rudra's locks that he had downloaded
earlier to Station Security. He didn't need the sound to guess the content of the
serious-looking quaddie woman's speech that followed: suspect wanted for questioning,
may be armed and dangerous, if you see this dubious downsider call this code at once. A
couple of shots of Bel followed, as the putative kidnapping victim, presumably; they
were taken from yesterday's interviews after the assassination attempt in the hostel,
which a newscaster came on to re-cap.
Can you turn it up? Miles asked belatedly.
The newscaster was just winding down; even as the cafe server aimed her remote, her
image was replaced with an advertisement for an impressive selection of work gloves.
Oh, sorry, said the server. It was a repeat anyway. They've been showing it every
fifteen minutes for the past hour. She provided Miles with a verbal summary of the
alarm, which matched Miles's guess in most particulars.
So, on just how many holovids all over the station was this now appearing? It would
be an order of magnitude harder for a wanted man to hide, with an order of magnitude
more pairs of eyes looking for him... but was Firka himself seeing this? If so, would
he panic, becoming more hazardous to anyone who crossed him? Or perhaps turn himself
in, claiming it was all some sort of misunderstanding? Roic, studying the vid, frowned
and drank more coffee. The sleep-deprived armsman was holding up all right for the
moment, but Miles figured he would be dragging dangerously by mid-afternoon.
Miles had an unpleasant sensation of sinking in a quicksand of diversions and losing
his grip on his initial mission. Which had been what? Oh, yes, free the fleet. He
suppressed an internal snarl of Screw the fleet, where the hell's Bel? But if there was
any way to use this disturbing development to pry his ships from quaddie hands, it was
not apparent to him right now.
They returned to Security Post One to find Nicol waiting for them in the front
reception space with the air of a hungry predator at a water hole. She pounced on Miles
the moment he appeared.
Did you find Bel? Did you see any sign?
Miles shook his head in regret. Neither hide nor hair. Well, there might be hairs -
we'll know when the forensics tech gets her analysis done - but that won't tell us
anything we don't already know from Garnet Five's testimony. The truth of which Miles
didn't doubt. I do have a better mental picture of the possible course of events,
now. He wished it made more sense. The first part - Firka wishing to delay or shake
his pursuers - was sensible enough. It was the blank afterward that puzzled.
Do you think, Nicol's voice grew smaller, he carried Bel away to murder someplace
else?
In that case, why leave a witness alive? He tossed this off instantly for her
reassurance; upon reflection, he found it reassuring too. Maybe. But if not murder,
what? What did Bel have or know that someone else might want? Unless, like Garnet Five,
Bel had come to consciousness on its own, and gone off. But... if Bel had wandered away
in some state of dazed or sick confusion, it should have been picked up by the
patrollers or some solicitous fellow stationers by now. And if it had gone in hot
pursuit of something, it should have reported in. To me, at least, dammit...
If Bel was, Nicol began, and stopped. A startling crowd heaved through the main
entry port, and paused for orientation.
A pair of husky male quaddies in the orange work shirts and shorts of Docks and Locks
managed the two ends of a three-meter length of pipe. Firka occupied the middle.
The unhappy downsider's wrists and ankles were lashed to the pipe with swathes of
electrical tape, bending him in a U, with another rectangle of tape plastered across
his mouth, muffling his moans. His eyes were wide, and rolled in panic. Three more
quaddies in orange, panting and rumpled, one with a red bruise starting around his eye,
bobbed along beside as outriders.
The work crew took aim and floated with their squirming burden through free fall to
fetch up with a thump at the reception desk. A quartet of uniformed security quaddies
appeared from another portal to gather and stare at this unwilling prize; the desk
sergeant hit his intercom, and lowered his voice to speak into it in a rapid undertone.
The spokes-quaddie for the posse bustled forward, a smile of grim satisfaction on his
bruised face. We caught him for you.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Where? Miles asked.
Number Two Freight Bay, the spokes-quaddie answered. He was trying to get Pramod
Sixteen, here - his nod indicated one of the husky quaddies holding an end of the
pipe, who nodded back in confirmation - to take him out in a pod around the security
zone to the galactic jumpship docks. So you can add attempted bribery of an airseal
tech to violate regs to his list of charges, I'd say.
Ah, ha. Another way to get around Bel's customs barriers... Miles's mind jumped back
to the missing Solian.
Pramod told him he was making arrangements, and slipped out and called me. I rounded
up the boys, and we made sure he'd come along and explain himself to you. The spokes-
quaddie gestured to Chief Venn, who'd floated in hastily from the office corridor and
was taking in the scene with unsurprised satisfaction.
The web-fingered downsider made a plaintive noise, beneath his electrical tape, but
Miles took it more for protest than explanation.
Nicol put in urgently, Did you see any sign of Bel?
Oh, hi, Nicol. The spokes-quaddie shook his head in regret. We asked the fellow,
but we didn't get an answer. If you all don't have better luck with him, we have a few
more ideas we can try. His scowl suggested that these might run to the illicit
utilization of airlocks, or perhaps innovative applications of freight-handling
equipment definitely not covered in the manufacturer's warranties. I bet we could make
him stop screaming and start talking before his air ran out.
I think we can take it from here, thanks, Chief Venn assured him. He glanced
without favor at Firka, wriggling on his pole. Although I'll keep your offer in mind.
Do you know Portmaster Thorne? Miles asked the Docks and Locks quaddie. Do you
work together?
Bel's one of our best supervisors, the quaddie replied. About the most sensible
downsider we've ever gotten. We don't care to lose it, eh? He gave Nicol a nod.
She ducked her head in mute gratitude.
The citizens' arrest was duly recorded. The quaddie patrollers who'd assembled looked
cautiously over the long, squirming captive, and elected to take him pole and all, for
the moment. The Docks and Locks crew, with justifiable self-satisfaction, also
presented the duffel bag Firka had been carrying.
So here was Miles's most wanted suspect, if not presented on a platter, at least en
brochette. Miles itched to tear that tape off his rubbery face and start squeezing.
Sealer Greenlaw arrived while this was going forth, accompanied by a new quaddie man,
dark-haired and fit-looking though not especially young. He wore neat, subdued garb
much like that of Boss Watts and Bel, but black instead of slate blue. She introduced
him as Adjudicator Leutwyn.
So, said Leutwyn, staring curiously at the tape-secured suspect. This is our one-
man crime wave. Do I understand he, too, came in with the Barrayaran fleet?
No, Adjudicator, said Miles. He joined the Rudra here on Graf Station, at the last
minute. Actually, he didn't sign aboard until after the ship had originally been due to
leave. I'd very much like to know why. I strongly suspect him of synthesizing and
planting the blood in the loading bay, of attempting to assassinate... someone, in the
hostel lobby yesterday, and of attacking Garnet Five and Bel Thorne last night. Garnet
Five, at least, had a fairly close look at him, and should be able to confirm that
identification shortly. But by far the most urgent question is, what has happened to
Portmaster Thorne? Hot pursuit of a kidnap victim in danger is sufficient pretext for
nonvoluntary penta interrogations in most jurisdictions, surely.
Here as well, the adjudicator admitted. But a fast-penta examination is a delicate
undertaking. I've found, in the half dozen I've monitored, that it's not nearly the
magic wand most people think it is.
Miles cleared his throat in fake diffidence. I am tolerably familiar with the
techniques, Adjudicator. I've conducted or sat in on over a hundred penta-assisted
interrogations. And I've had it given to me twice. No need to go into his
idiosyncratic drug reaction that had made those two events such dizzyingly surreal and
notably uninformative occasions.
Oh, said the quaddie adjudicator, sounding impressed despite himself, possibly
especially with that last detail.
I'm keenly aware of the need to keep the examination from being a mob scene, but you
also need the right leading questions. I believe I have several.
Venn put in, We haven't even processed the suspect yet. Me, I want to see what he's
got in that bag.
The adjudicator nodded. Yes, carry on, Chief Venn. I'd like further clarification,
if I can get it.
Mob scene or no, they all followed the quaddie patrollers who maneuvered the
unfortunate Firka, pole and all, into a back chamber. A pair of the patrollers, after
first clapping proper restraints around the bony wrists and ankles, recorded retinal
patterns and took laser scans of the fingers and palms. Miles had one curiosity
satisfied when they also pulled off the prisoner's soft boots; the finger-length toes,
prehensile or nearly so, flexed and stretched, revealing wide rose-colored webs
between. The quaddies scanned them, too - of course the quaddies would routinely scan
all four extremities - then cut through the bulky lashings of tape.
Meanwhile another patroller, assisted by Venn, emptied and inventoried the duffel.
They removed an assortment of clothes, mostly in dirty wads, to find a large new chef's
knife, a stunner with a dubiously corroded discharged power pack but no stunner permit,
a long crowbar, and a leather folder full of small tools. The folder also contained a
receipt for an automated hot riveter from a Graf Station engineering supply store,
complete with incriminating serial numbers. It was at this point that the adjudicator
stopped looking so carefully reserved and started to look grim instead. When the
patroller held up something that looked at first glance to be a scalp, but when shaken
out proved a brassy short blond wig of no particular quality, the evidence seemed
almost redundant.
Of more interest to Miles was not one, but a dozen sets of identifying documentation.
Half of them proclaimed their bearers to be natives of Jackson's Whole; the others were
from local space systems all adjoining the Hegen Hub, a wormhole-rich, planet-poor
system that was one of the Barrayaran Empire's nearest and most strategically important
Nexus neighbors. Jump routes from Barrayar to both Jackson's Whole and the Cetagandan
Empire passed, via Komarr and the independent buffer polity of Pol, through the Hub.
Venn ran the handful of IDs through a holovid station affixed to the chamber's
curving wall, his frown deepening. Miles and Roic both maneuvered to watch over his
shoulder.
So, Venn growled after a bit, which one really is the fellow?
Two sets of documentation for Firka included physical vid shots of a man very
different in appearance from their moaning captive: a big, bulky, but perfectly normal
human male from either Jackson's Whole, no House affiliation, or Aslund, another Hegen
Hub neighbor, depending on which - if either - ID was to be believed. Yet a third Firka
ID, the one the present Firka seemed to have used to travel from Tau Ceti to Graf
Station, portrayed the prisoner himself. Finally, his vid shots also matched up with
the IDs of a person named Russo Gupta, also hailing from Jackson's Whole and lacking a
proper House affiliation. That name, face, and associated retina scans came up again on
a jumpship engineer's license that Miles recognized as originating from a certain
Jacksonian organization of the sub-economy he had dealt with in his covert ops days.
Judging from the long file of dates and customs stamps appended, it had passed as
genuine elsewhere. And recently. A record of his travels, good!
Miles pointed. That is almost certainly a forgery.
The clustering quaddies looked genuinely shocked. Greenlaw said, A false engineer's
license? That would be unsafe.
If it's from the place I think, you could get a false neurosurgeon's license to go
with it. Or any other job you cared to pretend to have, without going through all that
tedious training and testing and certification. Or, in this case, really have - now,
there was a disturbing thought. Although on-the-job apprenticeship and self-teaching
might cover some of the gaps over time... someone had been clever enough to modify that
hot riveter, after all.
Under no circumstances could this pale, lanky mutie pass for a stout, pleasantly
ugly, red-haired woman named either Grace Nevatta of Jackson's Whole - no House
affiliation - or Louise Latour of Pol, depending on which set of IDs she favored. Nor
for a short, head-wired, mahogany-skinned jumpship pilot named Hewlet.
Who are all these people? Venn muttered in aggravation.
Why don't we just ask? suggested Miles.
Firka - or Gupta - had finally stopped struggling and just lay in midair, nostrils
flexing with his panting above the blue rectangle of tape over his mouth. The quaddie
patroller finished recording his last scans and reached for a corner of the tape, then
paused uncertainly. I'm afraid this is going to hurt a bit.
He's probably sweated enough underneath the tape to loosen it, Miles offered. Take
it in one quick jerk. It'll hurt less in the long run. That's what I'd want, if I were
him.
A muffled mew of disagreement from the prisoner turned into a shrill scream as the
quaddie followed this plan. All right, so, the frog prince hadn't sweated as much
around the mouth as Miles had guessed. It was still better to have the damned tape off
than on.
But despite the noises he'd been making the prisoner did not follow up this
liberation of his lips with outraged protests, swearing, complaints, or raving threats.
He just kept panting. His eyes were peculiarly glassy - a look Miles recognized, of a
man who'd been wound up far too tight for far too long. Bel's loyal stevedores might
have roughed him up a bit, but he hadn't acquired that look in the brief time he'd been
in quaddie hands.
Chief Venn held up a double handful, left and left, of IDs before the prisoner's
eyes. All right. Which one are you really? You may as well tell us the truth. We'll be
cross-checking it all anyway.
With surly reluctance, the prisoner muttered, I'm Guppy.
Guppy? Russo Gupta?
Yeah.
Who are these others?
Absent friends.
Miles wasn't quite sure if Venn had caught the intonation. He put in, Dead friends?
Yeah, that too. Guppy/Gupta stared away into a distance Miles calculated as light-
years.
Venn looked alarmed. Miles was torn between anxiety to proceed and an intense desire
to sit down and study the place and date stamps on all those IDs, real and fake, before
decanting Gupta. A world of revelation lay therein, he was fairly sure. But greater
urgencies drove the sequencing now.
Where is Portmaster Thorne? Miles asked.
I told those thugs before. I never heard of him.
Thorne is the Betan herm you sprayed with knockout mist last night in a utility
passage off Cross Corridor. Along with a blond quaddie woman named Garnet Five.
The surly look deepened. Never seen either of 'em.
Venn turned his head and nodded to a patroller, who flitted off. A few moments later
she returned through one of the chamber's other portals, ushering Garnet Five. Garnet's
color looked vastly better now, Miles was relieved to note, and she had obviously
managed to obtain whatever female grooming equipment she used to touch herself back up
to her high-visibility norm.
Ah! she said cheerfully. You caught him! Where's Bel?
Venn inquired formally, Is this the downsider who committed chemical assault on you
and the portmaster, and released illicit volatiles into the public atmosphere last
night?
Oh, yes, said Garnet Five. I couldn't possibly mistake him. I mean, look at the
webs.
Gupta clenched his lips, his fists, and his feet, but further pretense was clearly
futile.
Venn lowered his voice to a quite nicely menacing official growl. Gupta, where is
Portmaster Thorne?
I don't know where the blighted nosy herm is! I left it in the bin right next to
hers. It was all right then. I mean, it was breathing and all. They both were. I made
sure. The herm's probably still sleeping it off in there.
No, said Miles. We checked all the bins in the passage. The portmaster was gone.
Well, I don't know where it went after that.
Would you be willing to repeat that assertion under fast-penta, and clear yourself
of a kidnapping charge? Venn inquired cannily, angling for a voluntary interrogation.
Gupta's rubbery face set, and his eyes shifted away. Can't. I'm allergic to the
stuff.
Is that so? said Miles. Let's just check, shall we? He dug in his trouser pocket
and drew out the strip of test patches he'd borrowed earlier from the Kestrel's ImpSec
supplies, in anticipation of just such an opportunity. Granted, he hadn't anticipated
the added urgency of Bel's alarming vanishing act. He held up the strip and explained
to Venn and the adjudicator, who was monitoring all this with a judicial frown,
Security-grade penta allergy skin test. If the subject has any of the six kinds of
artificially induced anaphylaxes or even a mild natural allergy, the welt pops right
up. By way of reassurance to the quaddie officials, he peeled off one of the burr-like
patches and slapped it on the back of his own wrist, displaying it with a heartening
wriggle of his fingers. The sleight of hand was sufficient that no one except the
prisoner protested when he leaned over and pressed another to Gupta's arm. Gupta let
out a yowl of horror that won him only stares; he reduced it to a pitiable whimper
under the bemused eyes of the onlookers.
Miles peeled off his own patch to reveal a distinct reddish prickle. As you see, I
do have a slight endogenous sensitivity. He waited a few moments longer, to drive home
the point, then reached over and peeled the patch off Gupta. The rather sickly natural
- mushrooms were natural, right? - skin tone was unaffected.
Venn, getting into the rhythm of the thing like an old ImpSec hand, leaned toward
Gupta and said, That's two lies, so far, then. You can stop lying now. Or you can stop
lying shortly. Either way will do. He raised narrowed eyes to his fellow quaddie
official. Adjudicator Leutwyn, do you rule that we have sufficient cause for an
involuntary chemically assisted interrogation of this transient?
The adjudicator looked less than wholly enthusiastic, but he replied, In light of
his admitted connection to the worrisome disappearance of a valued Station employee,
yes, there can be no question. I do remind you that subjecting detainees in your charge
to unnecessary physical discomfort is against regs.
Venn glanced at Gupta, hanging miserably in air. How can he be uncomfortable? He's
in free fall.
The adjudicator pursed his lips. Transient Gupta, aside from your restraints, are
you in any special discomfort at this time? Do you require food, drink, or downsider
sanitary facilities?
Gupta jerked his wrists against their soft bonds, and shrugged. Naw. Well, yes. My
gills are getting dry. If you're not gonna let me loose, I need somebody to spray them.
The stuff's in my bag.
This? The female quaddie patroller held out what appeared to be a perfectly
ordinary plastic sprayer, of the sort that Miles had seen Ekaterin use to mist some of
her plants. She wriggled it, and it gurgled.
What's in it? asked Venn suspiciously.
Water, mostly. And a bit of glycerin, said Gupta.
Go ahead and check it, said Venn aside to his patroller. She nodded and floated
out; Gupta watched her depart with some mistrust, but no particular alarm.
Transient Gupta, it appears you're going to be our guest for a while, said Venn.
If we remove your restraints, are you going to give us any trouble, or are you going
to behave yourself?
Gupta was silent a moment, then vented an exhausted sigh. I'll behave. Much good
it'll do me either way.
A patroller floated forward and unshackled the prisoner's wrists and ankles. Only
Roic seemed less than pleased with this unnecessary courtesy, tensing with a hand on a
wall grip and one foot planted to a bit of bulkhead not occupied by equipment, ready to
launch himself forward. But Gupta only chafed his wrists and bent to rub his ankles,
and looked grudgingly grateful.
The patroller returned with the bottle, handing it to her chief. The lab's chemical
sniffer says it's inert. Should be safe, she reported.
Very well. Venn pitched the bottle to Gupta, who despite his odd long hands caught
it readily, with little downsider clumsiness, a fact Miles was sure the quaddie noted.
Um. Gupta gave the crowd of onlookers a slightly embarrassed glance, and hitched up
his loose poncho. He stretched and inhaled, and the ribs on his big barrel chest drew
apart; flaps of skin parted to reveal red slashes. The substance beneath seemed spongy,
rippling in the misting like densely laid feathers.
God almighty. He really does have gills under there. Presumably, the bellows-like
movement of the chest helped pump water through, when the amphibian was immersed. Dual
systems. So did he hold his breath, or did his lungs shut down involuntarily? By what
mechanism was his blood circulation switched from one oxygenating interface to the
other? Gupta pumped the bottle and sprayed mist into the red slits, handing it back and
forth from right side to left, and seemed to draw some comfort thereby. He sighed, and
the slits closed back down, his chest appearing merely ridged and scarred. He smoothed
the drifting poncho back into place.
Where are you from? Miles couldn't help asking.
Gupta grew surly again. Guess.
Well, Jackson's Whole, by the weight of the evidence, but which House made you?
Ryoval, Bharaputra, another? And were you a one-off, or part of a set? First-generation
gengineered, or from a self-reproducing line of, of water people?
Gupta's eyes widened in surprise. You know Jackson's Whole?
Let's say, I've had several painfully educational visits there.
The surprise became edged with faint respect, and a certain lonely eagerness. House
Dyan made me. I was part of a set, once - we were an underwater ballet troupe.
Garnet Five blurted in unflattering astonishment, You were a dancer?
The prisoner hunched his shoulders. No. They made me to be submersible stage crew.
But House Dyan suffered a hostile takeover by House Ryoval - just a few years before
Baron Ryoval was assassinated, pity that didn't happen sooner. Ryoval broke up the
troupe for other, um, tasks, and decided he had no alternate use for me, so I was out
of a job and out of protection. Could have been worse. He mighta kept me. I drifted
around and took what tech jobs I could get. One thing led to another.
In other words, Gupta had been born into Jacksonian techno-serfdom, and dumped out on
the street when his original owner-creators had been engulfed by their vicious
commercial rival. Given what Miles knew of the late, unsavory Baron Ryoval, Gupta's
fate was perhaps happier than that of his mer-cohort. By the known date of Ryoval's
death, that last vague remark about things leading to things covered at least five
years, maybe as many as ten.
Miles said thoughtfully, You weren't shooting at me at all yesterday, then, were
you. Nor at Portmaster Thorne. Which left...
Gupta blinked at him. Oh! That's where I saw you before. Sorry, no. His brow
corrugated. So what were you doing there, then? You're not one of the passengers. Are
you another Stationer squatter like that officious bloody Betan?
No. My name is - he made an instant, almost subliminal decision to drop all the
honorifics - Miles. I was sent out to look after Barrayaran concerns when the quaddies
impounded the Komarran fleet.
Oh. Gupta grew uninterested.
What the devil was keeping that fast-penta? Miles softened his voice. So what
happened to your friends, Guppy?
That fetched the amphibian's attention again. Double-crossed. Subjected, injected,
infected... rejected. We were all taken in. Damned Cetagandan bastard. That wasn't the
Deal.
Something inside Miles went on overdrive. Here's the connection, finally. His smile
grew charming, sympathetic, and his voice softened further. Tell me about the
Cetagandan bastard, Guppy.
The hovering mob of quaddie listeners had stopped rustling, even breathing more
quietly. Roic had drawn back to a shadowed spot opposite Miles. Gupta glanced around at
the Graf Stationers, and at Miles and himself, the only legged persons now in view in
the center of the circle. What's the use? The tone was not a wail of despair, but a
bitter query.
I am Barrayaran. I have a special stake in Cetagandan bastards. The Cetagandan ghem-
lords left five million of my grandfather's generation dead behind them, when they
finally gave up and pulled out of Barrayar. I still have his bag of ghem-scalps. For
certain kinds of Cetagandans, I might know a use or two you'd find interesting.
The prisoner's wandering gaze snapped to his face and locked there. For the first
time, he'd won Gupta's total attention. For the first time, he'd hinted he might have
something that Guppy really wanted. Wanted? Burned for, lusted for, desired with mad
obsessive hunger. His glassy eyes were ravenous for... maybe revenge, maybe justice -
in any case, blood. But the frog prince clearly lacked personal expertise in
retribution. The quaddies didn't deal in blood. Barrayarans... had a more sanguinary
reputation. Which, for the first time this mission, might actually prove some use.
Gupta took a long breath. I don't know what kind this one was. Is. He was like
nothing I'd ever met before. Cetagandan bastard. He melted us.
Tell me, Miles breathed, everything. Why you?
He came to us... through our usual cargo agents. We thought it would be all right.
We had a ship. Gras-Grace and Firka and Hewlet and me had this ship. Hewlet was our
pilot, but Gras-Grace was the brains. Me, I had a knack for fixing things. Firka kept
the books, and fixed regs, and passports, and nosy officials. Gras-Grace and her three
husbands, we called us. We were a collection of rejects, but maybe we added up to one
real spouse for her, I don't know. One for all and all for one, because it was damn
sure that a crew of refugee Jacksonians, without a House or a Baron, wasn't going to
get a break from anyone else in the Nexus.
Gupta was getting wound up in his story. Miles, listening with utmost care, prayed
Venn would have the sense not to interrupt. Ten people hovered around them in this
chamber, yet he and Gupta, mutually hypnotized by the increasing intensity of his
confession, might almost be floating in a bubble of time and space altogether removed
from this universe. So where did you pick up this Cetagandan and his cargo, anyway?
Gupta glanced up, startled. You know about the cargo?
If it's the same one now aboard the Idris, yes, I've had a look. I found it rather
disturbing.
What's he got in there, really? I only saw the outsides.
I'd rather not say, at this time. What did he, Miles elected not to go into the
confusions of ba gender just now, tell you it was?
Gengineered mammals. Not that we asked questions. We got paid extra for not asking
questions. That was the Deal, we thought.
And if there was anything that the ethically elastic inhabitants of Jackson's Whole
held nearly sacred, it was the Deal. A good bargain, was it?
Looked like. Two or three more runs like that, we could have paid off the ship and
owned it free and clear.
Miles took leave to doubt that, if the crew was in debt for their jumpship to a
typical Jacksonian financial House. But perhaps Guppy and his friends had been terminal
optimists. Or terminally desperate.
The gig looked easy enough. Just take a little mixed-freight run through the fringes
of the Cetagandan Empire. We jumped in through the Hegen Hub, via Vervain, and skirted
round to Rho Ceta. All those arrogant, suspicious bastard inspectors who boarded us at
the jump points turned up nothing to hold against us, though they'd have liked to,
because there wasn't anything aboard but what our filed manifest said. Gave old Firka a
good chuckle. Till we were heading out for the last jumps, for Rho Ceta through those
empty buffer systems just before the route splits to Komarr. We made one little mid-
space rendezvous there that didn't appear on our flight plan.
What kind of ship did you rendezvous with? Jumpship, or just a local space crawler?
Could you tell for sure, or was it disguised or camouflaged?
Jumpship. I don't know what else it might have really been. It looked like a
Cetagandan government ship. It had lots of fancy markings, anyway. Not big, but fast -
fresh and classy. The Cetagandan bastard moved his cargo all by himself, with float
pallets and hand tractors, but he sure didn't waste any time. The moment the locks were
closed, they went off.
Where? Could you tell?
Well, Hewlet said they had an odd trajectory. It was that uninhabited binary system
a few jumps out from Rho Ceta, I don't know if you know it -
Miles nodded in encouragement.
They went inbound, deeper into the grav well. Maybe they were planning to swing
around the suns and approach one of the jump points from a disguised trajectory, I
don't know. That would make sense, given all the rest of it.
Just the one passenger?
Yeah.
Tell me more about him.
Not much to tell - then. He kept to himself, ate his own rations in his own cabin.
He didn't talk to me at all. He had to talk to Firka, on account of Firka was fixing
his manifest. By the time we reached the first Barrayaran jump point inspection, it had
a whole new provenance. He was somebody else by then, too.
Ker Dubauer?
Venn twitched at this first mention of the familiar name in his hearing, and opened
his mouth and inhaled, but closed it again without diverting Guppy's flow. The unhappy
amphibian was in full spate now, pouring out his troubles.
Not yet, he wasn't. He musta become Dubauer during his layover on the Komarran
transfer station, I figure. I didn't track him by his identity, anyway. He was too good
for that. Fooled you Barrayarans, didn't he?
Indeed. An apparent Cetagandan agent of the highest caliber had passed through
Barrayar's key Nexus trade crossroad like so much smoke. ImpSec would have a seizure
when this report arrived. How did you follow him here, then?
The first smile-like expression Miles had seen on the rubbery face ghosted across
Gupta's lips. I was ship's engineer. I tracked him by his cargo's mass. It was kind of
distinctive, when I went to look, later.
The ghastly smile faded into a black frown. When we dumped him and his pallets off
on the Komarran transfer station's loading bay, he seemed happy. Downright cordial. He
went around to each of us for the first time, and gave us our no-problems bonuses
personally. He shook Hewlet's and Firka's hands. He asked to see my webbing, so I
spread my fingers for him, and he leaned over and gripped my arm and seemed real
interested, and thanked me. He gave Gras-Grace a pat on her cheek, and smiled at her in
this sappy way. He smirked as he touched her. Knowing. Since she was holding the bonus
chit in her hand, she sort of smiled back and didn't deck him, though I could see it
was a near thing. And then we bailed out. Hewlet and I wanted to take station leave and
spend some of our bonus, but Gras-Grace said we could party later. And Firka said the
Barrayaran Empire wasn't a healthy place for the likes of us to linger in. A
distracted laugh that had nothing to do with humor puffed from his lips. So. That
startling scream when Miles had touched the test patch to Guppy's skin hadn't been
overreaction, exactly. It had been a flashback. Miles suppressed a shudder. Sorry,
sorry.
It was six days out from Komarr, past the jump to Pol, before the fevers began.
Gras-Grace guessed it first, from the way it started. She always was the quickest of
us. Four little pink wheals, like some kind of bug bites, on the backs of Hewlet and
Firka's hands, on her cheek, on my arm where the Cetagandan bastard had touched me.
They swelled up to the size of eggs, and throbbed, though not as much as our heads. It
only took an hour. My head hurt so bad I could hardly see, and Gras-Grace, who wasn't
doing any better, helped me to my cabin so's I could get into my tank.
Tank?
I'd rigged up a big tank in my cabin, with a lid I could lock down from the inside,
because the gravity on that old ship wasn't any too reliable. It was really comfortable
to rest in, my own kind of water bed. I could stretch all the way out, and turn around.
Good filtration system on the water, nice and clean, and extra oxygen sparkling up
through it from a bubbler I'd rigged, all pretty with colored lights. And music. I miss
my tank. He heaved a sigh.
You... appear to have lungs, as well. Do you hold your breath underwater, or what?
Gupta shrugged. I have these extra sphincter muscles in my nose and ears and throat
that shut down automatically, when my breathing switches over. That's always kind of an
awkward moment, the switch; my lungs don't always seem to want to stop. Or start again,
sometimes. But I can't stay in my tank forever, or I'd end up pissing in the water I
breathe. That's what happened then. I floated in my tank for... hours, I'm not sure how
many. I don't think I was quite in my right mind, I hurt so bad. But then I had to
piss. Really bad. So I had to get out.
I damn near passed out when I stood. I threw up on the floor. But I could walk. I
made it to my cabin's head, finally. The ship was still running, I could feel the right
vibrations through my feet, but it had gone all quiet. Nobody talking or arguing or
snoring, no music. No laughing. I was cold and wet. I put on a robe - it was one of
hers that Gras-Grace had given me, because she claimed being fat made her hot, and I
was always too cold. She said it was because my designers gave me frog genes. For all I
know, that might be true.
I found her body... He stopped. The light-years-gone look in his eyes intensified.
About five steps down the corridor. At least, I thought it was her. It was her braid,
floating on the... At least, I thought it was a body. The size of the puddle seemed
about right. It stank like... What kind of hell-disease liquefies bones?
He inhaled, and continued unsteadily, Firka had made it to the infirmary, for all
the good it had done him. He was all flaccid, like he was deflating. And dripping. Over
the side of the bunk. He stank worse than Gras-Grace. And he was steaming.
Hewlet - what was left of him - was in his pilot's chair in Nav and Com. I don't
know why he crawled up there, maybe it was a comfort to him. Pilots are strange that
way. His pilot's headset kind of held his skull braced, but his face... his features...
they were just sliding off. I thought he might have been trying to send an emergency
message, maybe. Help us. Biocontamination aboard. But maybe not, because nobody ever
came. Later I thought maybe he'd sent too much, and the rescuers stayed away on
purpose. Why should the good citizens risk anything for us? Just Jacksonian smuggler
scum. Better off dead. Saves the trouble and expense of prosecution, eh? He looked at
no one, now.
Miles feared he was falling silent, spent. But there was so much more, desperately
important, to know... He dared to play out a lead - So. No shit, there you were,
trapped on a drifting ship with three dissolving corpses including a dead jump pilot.
How did you get away?
The ship... the ship was no good to me now, not without Hewlet. And the others. Let
the bastard financers have it, biocontamination and all. Murdered dreams. But I figured
I was everybody's heir, by that time. Nobody had anybody else, not to speak to. I
would've wanted them to have my stuff, if it had been the other way around. I went
round and collected everybody's movables, spare cash, credit chits - Firka had a huge
cache. He would. And he had all our doctored IDs. Gras-Grace, well, she probably gave
hers away, or lost it gambling, or spent it on toys, or let it slip through her fingers
somehow. Which made her smarter than Firka, in the long run. Hewlet, I guess he'd drunk
most of his. But there was enough. Enough to travel to the ends of the Nexus, if I was
clever about it. Enough to catch up with that Cetagandan bastard, stern chase or no.
With that heavy cargo, I didn't figure he'd be traveling all that fast.
I took it all and loaded it in an escape capsule. Decontaminated it all, and me, a
dozen times first, trying to get that horrible death smell off. I wasn't... I wasn't at
my best and brightest, I don't think, but I wasn't that far gone. Once I was in the
capsule, it wasn't so hard. They're designed to get injured idiots to safety,
automatically following the local space beacons... I got picked up three days later by
a passing ship, and told a bullshit story about our ship coming apart - they believed
that when they looked up the Jacksonian registry. I'd stopped crying by then. Tears
were glistening at the corners of his eyes now. Didn't mention the bio-shit, or they'd
have jugged me good. They dropped me at the nearest Polian jump point station. From
there I slipped away from the safety investigators and got me on the first ship I could
bound for Komarr. I tracked the Cetagandan bastard's cargo by its mass to the Komarran
trade fleet that had just pulled out. Ran a search to find a route that would catch me
up to it at the first possible place. Which was here. He stared around, blinking at
his quaddie audience as if surprised to find them all still in the room.
How did Lieutenant Solian get sucked into it? Miles had been waiting with nerves
stretched to twanging to ask that one.
I thought I could just lie in wait and ambush the Cetagandan bastard as soon as he
came off the Idris. But he never came off. Stayed holed up in his cabin, I guess. Smart
scum. I couldn't get through customs or the ship's security - I wasn't a registered
passenger or a guest of one, though I tried to butter up a few. Scared the shit out of
me when the fellow I tried to bribe to get me on board threatened to turn me in. Then I
got smart and got me a berth on the Rudra, to at least get me legal entry past customs
into those loading bays. And to be sure I'd be able to follow along if the fleet pulled
out suddenly, which it was overdue to do by then. I wanted to kill him myself, for
Gras-Grace and Firka and Hewlet, but if he was going to get away, I thought, if I
turned him in to the Barrayarans as a Cetagandan spy, maybe... something interesting
might happen, anyway. Something he wouldn't like. I didn't want to leave my trace on
the vid call record, so I caught the Idris's security officer in person when he was out
in the loading bay. Tipped him off. I wasn't sure if he believed me or not, but I guess
he went to check. Gupta hesitated. He musta run into the Cetagandan bastard. I'm
sorry. I'm afraid I got him melted. Like Gras-Grace and... His litany ended in a
shaken gulp.
Is that when Solian had the nose bleed? When you were tipping him off? Miles asked.
Gupta stared. What are you, some kind of psychic?
Check. Why the faked blood on the docking bay floor?
Well... I'd heard the fleet was pulling out. They were saying that the poor bugger
I'd got melted was supposed to have deserted, and they were writing him off, just
like... like he didn't have a House or a Baron to put up any stake for him, and nobody
cared. But I was afraid the Cetagandan bastard would pull another mid-space transfer,
and I'd be stuck on the Rudra, and he'd get away... I thought it would focus attention
back on the Idris, and what might be on it. I didn't dream those military morons would
attack the quaddie station!
There were concatenating circumstances, Miles said primly, made conscious, for the
first time in what seemed a small eternity of evoked horrors, of the hovering quaddie
officialdom. You certainly triggered events, but you could not possibly have
anticipated them. He, too, blinked and looked around. Er... did you have any
questions, Chief Venn?
Venn was giving him a most peculiar stare. He shook his head, slowly, from side to
side.
Uh... A young quaddie patroller Miles had barely noticed enter during Guppy's
urgent soliloquy held out a small, glittering object to his chief. I have the fast-
penta dose you ordered, sir... ?
Venn took it and gazed over at Adjudicator Leutwyn.
Leutwyn cleared his throat. Remarkable. I do believe, Lord Auditor Vorkosigan, that
is the first time I've ever seen a fast-penta interrogation conducted without the fast-
penta.
Miles glanced at Guppy, curled around himself in air, shivering a little. Smears of
water still glistened at the corners of his eyes. He... really wanted to tell somebody
his story. He's been dying to for weeks. There was just no one in the entire Nexus he
could trust.
Still isn't, gulped the prisoner. Don't get a swelled head, Barrayaran. I know
nobody's on my side. But I missed my one shot, and he saw me. I was safe when he
thought I was melted like the others. I'm a dead frog now, one way or another. But if I
can't take him with me, maybe somebody else can.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Chief Venn said, So... this Cetagandan bastard Gupta here is raving about, that he
says killed three of his friends and maybe your Lieutenant Solian - you really think
this is the same as the Betan transient, Dubauer, that you wanted us to pick up last
night? So is he a herm, or a man, or what?
Or what, answered Miles. My medical people established from a blood sample I
accidentally collected yesterday that Dubauer is a Cetagandan ba. The ba are neither
male, female, nor hermaphrodite, but a genderless servant... caste, I guess is the best
word, of the Cetagandan haut lords. More specifically, of the haut ladies who run the
Star Creche, at the core of the Celestial Garden, the Imperial residence on Eta Ceta.
Who almost never left the Celestial Garden, with or without their ba servitors. So
what's this ba doing way out here, eh? Miles hesitated, then went on, This ba appears
to be conducting a cargo of a thousand of what I suspect are the latest genetically
modified haut fetuses in uterine replicators. I don't know where, I don't know why, and
I don't know who for, but if Guppy's telling us the straight story, the ba has killed
four people, including our missing security officer, and tried to kill Guppy, to keep
its secret and cover its tracks. At least four people.
Greenlaw's expression had grown stiff with dismay. Venn regarded Gupta, frowning. I
guess we'd better put out a public arrest call on Dubauer, then, too.
No! Miles cried in alarm.
Venn raised his brows at him.
Miles explained hastily, We're talking about a possible trained Cetagandan agent who
may be carrying sophisticated bioweapons. It's already extremely stressed by the delays
into which this dispute with the trade fleet has plunged it. It's just discovered it's
made one bad mistake at least, because Guppy here is still alive. I don't care how
superhuman it is, it has to be rattled by now. The last thing you want to do is send a
bunch of feckless civilians up against it. Nobody should even approach the ba who
doesn't know exactly what they're doing and what they're facing.
And your people brought this creature here, onto my station?
Believe me, if any of my people had known what the ba was before this, it would
never have made it past Komarr. The trade fleet are dupes, innocent carriers, I'm
sure. Well, he wasn't that sure - checking that airy assertion was going to be a high-
priority problem for counterintelligence, back home.
Carriers... Greenlaw echoed, looking hard at Guppy. All the quaddies in the room
followed her stare. Could this transient still be carrying that... whatever it was,
infection?
Miles took a breath. Possibly. But if he is, it's too damned late already. Guppy has
been running all over Graf Station for days, now. Hell, if he's infectious, he's just
spread a plague along a route through the Nexus touching half a dozen planets. And me.
And my fleet. And maybe Ekaterin too. I see two points of hope. One, by Guppy's
testimony, the ba had to administer the thing by actual touch.
The patrollers who'd handled the prisoner looked apprehensively at each other.
And secondly, Miles went on, if the disease or poison is something bioengineered
by the Star Creche, it's likely to be highly controlled, possibly deliberately self-
limiting and self-destructing. The haut ladies don't like to leave their trash lying
around for anyone to pick up.
But I got better! cried the amphibian.
Yes, said Miles. Why? Obviously, something in your unique genetics or situation
either defeated the thing, or held it at bay long enough to keep you alive past its
period of activity. Putting you in quarantine is about useless by now, but the next
highest priority after nailing the ba has got to be running you through the medical
wringer, to see if what you have or did can save anyone else. Miles drew breath. May
I offer the facilities of the Prince Xav? Our medical people do have some specific
training in Cetagandan bio-threats.
Guppy blurted to Venn in panic, Don't give me to them! They'll dissect me!
Venn, who had brightened at this offer, shot the prisoner an exasperated look, but
Greenlaw said slowly, I know something of the ghem and the haut, but I've never heard
of these ba, or the Star Creche.
Adjudicator Leutwyn added warily, Cetagandans of any stripe haven't much come in my
way.
Greenlaw continued, What makes you think their work is so safe, so restricted?
Safe, no. Controlled, maybe. How far did he need to back up his explanation to make
the dangers clear to them? It was vital that the quaddies be made to understand, and
believe. The Cetagandans... have this two-tiered aristocracy that is the bafflement of
non-Cetagandan military observers. At the core are the haut lords, who are, in effect,
one giant genetics experiment in producing the post-human race. This work is conducted
and controlled by the haut women geneticists of the Star Creche, the center where all
haut embryos are created and modified before being sent back to their haut
constellations - clans, parents - on the outlying planets of the empire. Unlike most
prior historical versions of this sort of thing, the haut ladies didn't start by
assuming they'd reached the perfected end already. They do not, at present, believe
themselves to be done tinkering. When they are - well, who knows what will happen? What
are the goals and desires going to be of the true post-human? Even the haut ladies
don't try to second-guess their great-great-great-whatever grandchildren. I will say,
it makes it uncomfortable to have them as neighbors.
Didn't the haut try to conquer you Barrayarans, once? asked Leutwyn.
Not the haut. The ghem-lords. The buffer race, if you will, between the haut and the
rest of humanity. I suppose you could think of the ghem as the haut's bastard children,
except that they aren't bastards. In that sense, anyway. The haut leak selected genetic
lines into the ghem via trophy haut wives - it's a complicated system. But the ghem-
lords are the military arm of the empire, always anxious to prove their worth to their
haut masters.
The ghem, I've seen, said Venn. We get them through here now and then. I though
the haut were, well, sort of degenerate. Aristocratic parasites. Afraid to get their
hands dirty. They don't work. He gave a very quaddie sniff of disdain. Or fight. You
have to wonder how long the ghem-soldiers will put up with them.
On the surface, the haut appear to dominate the ghem through pure moral suasion.
Overawe by their beauty and intelligence and refinement, and by making themselves the
source of all kinds of status rewards, culminating in the haut wives. All this is true.
But beneath that... it is strongly suspected that the haut hold a biological and
biochemical arsenal that even the ghem find terrifying.
I haven't heard of anything like that being used, said Venn in a tone of
skepticism.
Oh, you bet you haven't.
Why didn't they use it on you Barrayarans, back then, if they had it? said Greenlaw
slowly.
That is a problem much studied, at certain levels of my government. First, it would
have alarmed the neighborhood. Bioweapons aren't the only kind. The Cetagandan Empire
apparently wasn't ready to face a posse of people scared enough to combine to burn off
their planets and sterilize every living microbe. More importantly, we think it was a
question of goals. The ghem-lords wanted the territory and the wealth, the personal
aggrandizement that would have followed successful conquest. The haut ladies just
weren't that interested. Not enough to waste their resources - not resources of weapons
per se, but of reputation, secrecy, of a silent threat of unknown potency. Our
intelligence services have amassed maybe half a dozen cases in the past thirty years of
suspected use of haut-style bioweapons, and in every instance, it was a Cetagandan
internal matter. He glanced at Greenlaw's intensely disturbed face and added in what
he hoped didn't sound like hollow reassurance, There was no spread or bio-backsplash
from those incidents that we know of.
Venn looked at Greenlaw. So do we take this prisoner to a clinic, or to a cell?
Greenlaw was silent for a few moments, then said, Graf Station University clinic.
Straight to the infectious isolation unit. I think we want our best experts in on this,
and as quickly as possible.
Gupta objected, But I'll be an open target! I was hunting the Cetagandan bastard -
now he - it, whatever - will be hunting me!
I agree with this evaluation, Miles said quickly. Wherever you take Gupta, the
location should be kept absolutely secret. The fact that he's even been taken into
custody should be suppressed - dear God, this arrest hasn't gone out on your news
services already, has it? Piping the word of Gupta's location to every nook of the
station...
Not formally, said Venn uneasily.
It scarcely mattered, Miles supposed. Dozens of quaddies had seen the web-fingered
man brought in, including everybody that Bel's crew of roustabouts had passed on the
way. The Docks and Locks quaddies would certainly brag of their catch to everyone they
knew. The gossip would be all over.
I strongly urge - beg! - you to put out word of his daring escape, then. Complete
with follow-up bulletins asking all the citizens to keep an eye out for him again. The
ba had killed four to keep its secret - would it be willing to kill fifty thousand?
A disinformation campaign? Greenlaw's lips pursed in repugnance.
The lives of everyone on the station might well depend on it. Secrecy is your best
hope of safety. And Gupta's. After that, guards -
My people are already spread to their limit, Venn protested. He gave Greenlaw a
beseeching look.
Miles opened a hand in acknowledgment. Not patrollers. Guards who know what they're
doing, trained in bio-defense procedures.
We'll have to draw on Union Militia specialists, said Greenlaw in a decisive tone.
I'll put in the request. But it will take them... some time, to get here.
In the meanwhile, said Miles, I can loan you some trained personnel.
Venn grimaced. I have a detention block full of your personnel. I'm not much
impressed with their training.
Miles suppressed a wince. Not them. Military medical corps.
I will consider your offer, said Greenlaw neutrally.
Some of Vorpatril's senior medical men must have some expertise in this area. If you
won't let us take Gupta out to the safety of one of our vessels, please, let them come
aboard the station to help you.
Greenlaw's eyes narrowed. All right. We will accept up to four such volunteers.
Unarmed. Under the direct supervision and command of our own medical experts.
Agreed, said Miles instantly.
It was the best compromise he was likely to get, for the moment. The medical end of
this problem, terrifying as it was, would have to be left to the specialists; it was
out of Miles's range of expertise. Catching the ba before it could do any more damage,
now...
The haut are not immune to stunner fire. I... recommend - he could not order, he
could not demand, most of all, he could not scream - you quietly inform all of your
patrollers that the ba - Dubauer - be stunned on sight. Once it's down, we can sort
things out at our leisure.
Venn and Greenlaw exchanged looks with the adjudicator. Leutwyn said in a constricted
voice, It would be against regs to so ambush the suspect if it is not in process of a
crime, resisting arrest, or fleeing.
Bioweapons? muttered Venn.
The adjudicator swallowed. Make damned sure your patrollers don't miss their first
shot.
Your ruling is noted, sir.
And if the ba stayed out of sight? Which it had certainly managed to do for most of
the past twenty-four hours....
What did the ba want? Its cargo freed, and Guppy dead before he could talk,
presumably. What did the ba know, at this point? Or not know? It didn't know that Miles
had identified its cargo... did it? Where the hell is Bel?
Ambush, Miles echoed. There are two places where you could set up an ambush for
the ba. Wherever you take Guppy - or better still, wherever the ba believes you've
taken Guppy. If you don't want to put it about that he's escaped, then take him to a
concealed location, with a second, less secret one set up for bait. Then, another trap
at the Idris. If Dubauer calls in requesting permission to go aboard again, which the
last time we met, it fully intended to do, you should grant the petition. Then nail it
as it enters the loading bay.
That's what I was going to do, put in Gupta in a resentful voice. If you people
had just let well enough alone, this could have been all over by now.
Miles privately agreed, but it would hardly do to say so out loud; someone might
point out just who had put on the pressure for Gupta's arrest.
Greenlaw was looking grimly thoughtful. I wish to inspect this alleged cargo. It is
possible that it violates enough regs to merit impoundment quite separately from the
issue of its carrier ship.
The adjudicator cleared his throat. That could grow legally complex, Sealer. More
complex. Cargoes not off-loaded for transfer, even if questionable, are normally
allowed to pass through without legal comment. They're considered to be the territorial
responsibility of the polity of registration of the carrier, unless they are an
imminent public danger. A thousand fetuses, if that's what they are, constitute... what
menace?
Impounding them could prove a horrific danger, Miles thought. It would certainly lock
Cetagandan attention upon Quaddiespace. Speaking from both historical and personal
experience, this was not necessarily a good thing.
I want to confirm this for myself, too, said Venn. And give my guards their orders
in person, and figure out where to place my sharpshooters.
And you need me along, to get into the cargo hold, Miles pointed out.
Greenlaw said, No, just your security codes.
Miles smiled blandly at her.
Her jaw tightened. After a moment, she growled, Very well. Let's go, Venn. You too,
Adjudicator. And, she sighed briefly, you, Lord Auditor Vorkosigan.
Gupta was wrapped in bio-barriers by the two quaddies who had handled him before - a
logical choice, if not much to their liking. They donned wraps and gloves themselves
and towed him out without allowing him to touch anything else. The amphibian suffered
this without protest. He looked utterly exhausted.
Garnet Five left with Nicol for Nicol's apartment, where the two quaddie women
planned to support each other while awaiting word of Bel. Call me, Nicol pleaded in
an under-voice to Miles as they floated out. Miles nodded his promise, and prayed
silently that it would not prove to be one of those hard calls.
His brief vid call out to the Prince Xav and Admiral Vorpatril was hard enough.
Vorpatril was almost as white as his hair by the time Miles had finished bringing him
up to date. He promised to expedite a selection of medical volunteers at emergency
speed.
The procession to the Idris finally included Venn, Greenlaw, the adjudicator, two
quaddie patrollers, Miles, and Roic. The loading bay was as dim and quiet as - had it
only been yesterday? One of the two quaddie guards, watched bemusedly by the other, was
out of his floater and crouched on the floor. He was evidently playing a game with
gravity involving a scattering of tiny bright metal caltrops and a small rubber ball,
which seemed to consist of bouncing the ball off the floor, catching it again, and
snatching up the little caltrops between bounces. To make it more interesting for
himself, he was switching hands with each iteration. At the sight of the visitors, the
guard hastily pocketed the game and scrambled back into his floater.
Venn pretended not to see this, simply inquiring after any events of note during
their shift. Not only had no unauthorized persons attempted to get past them, the
investigation committee was the first live persons the bored men had seen since
relieving the prior shift. Venn lingered with his patrollers to make his arrangements
for the stunner ambush of the ba, should it appear, and Miles led Roic, Greenlaw, and
the adjudicator aboard the ship.
The gleaming rows of replicator racks in Dubauer's leased cargo hold appeared
unchanged from yesterday. Greenlaw grew tense about the lips, guiding her floater
around the hold on an initial overview, then pausing to stare down the aisles. Miles
thought he could almost see her doing the multiplication in her head. She and Leutwyn
then hovered by Miles's side as he activated a few control panels to demonstrate the
replicators' contents.
It was almost a repeat of yesterday, except... a number of the readout indicators
showed amber instead of green. Closer examination revealed them as measures of an array
of stressor-signals, including adrenaline levels. Was the ba right about the fetuses
reaching some sort of biological limit in their containers? Was this the first sign of
dangerous overgrowth? As Miles watched, a couple of the light bars dropped back on
their own from amber to a more encouraging green. He went on to call up the vid monitor
images of the individual fetuses for Greenlaw's and the adjudicator's views. The fourth
one he activated showed amniotic fluid cloudy with scarlet blood when the lights came
on. Miles caught his breath. How... ?
That surely wasn't normal. The only possible source of blood was the fetus itself. He
rechecked the stressor levels - this one showed a lot of amber - then stood on tiptoe
and peered more closely at the image. The blood appeared to be leaking from a small,
jagged gash on the twitching haut infant's back. The low red lighting, Miles reassured
himself uneasily, made it look worse than it was.
Greenlaw's voice by his ear made him jump. Is there something wrong with that one?
He appears to have suffered some sort of mechanical injury. That... shouldn't be
possible, in a sealed replicator. He thought of Aral Alexander, and Helen Natalia, and
his stomach knotted. If you have any quaddie experts in replicator reproduction, it
might not be a bad idea to get them in here to look at these. He doubted this was a
specialty where the military medicos from the Prince Xav were likely to be much help.
Venn appeared at the door of the hold, and Greenlaw repeated most of Miles's
orienting patter for his benefit. Venn's expression was most disturbed as he regarded
the replicators. That frog fellow wasn't lying. This is very strange.
Venn's wrist com buzzed, and he excused himself to float to the side of the room and
engage in some low-voiced conversation with whatever subordinate was reporting in. At
least, it began as low-voiced, until Venn bellowed, What? When?
Miles abandoned his worried study of the injured haut infant and edged over to Venn.
About 0200, sir, a distressed voice responded from the wrist com.
This wasn't authorized!
Yes, it was, Crew Chief, duly. Portmaster Thorne authorized it. Since it was the
same passenger it had brought on board yesterday, the one who had that live cargo to
tend, we didn't think anything was odd.
What time did they leave? Venn asked. His face was a mask of dismay.
Not on our shift, sir. I don't know what happened after that. I went straight home
and went to bed. I didn't see the search bulletin for Portmaster Thorne on the news
stream till I got up for breakfast just a few minutes ago.
Why didn't you pass this on in your end-of-shift report?
Portmaster Thorne said not to. The voice hesitated. At least... the passenger
suggested we might want to leave this off the record, so that we wouldn't have to deal
with all the other passengers demanding access too if they heard about it, and
Portmaster Thorne nodded and said Yes.
Venn winced, and took a deep breath. It can't be helped, Patroller. You reported as
soon as you knew. I'm glad you at least picked up the news right away. We'll take it
from here. Thank you. Venn cut the channel.
What was that all about? asked Miles. Roic had strolled up to loom over his
shoulder.
Venn clutched his head with his upper hands, and groaned, My night-shift guard on
the Idris just woke up and saw the news bulletin about Thorne being missing. He says
Thorne came here last night about oh-two-hundred and passed Dubauer through the
guards.
Where did Thorne go after that?
Escorted Dubauer aboard, apparently. Neither of them came off while my night-shift
crew was watching. Excuse me. I need to go talk to my people. Venn grabbed his floater
control and swung hastily out of the cargo hold.
Miles stood stunned. How could Bel have gone from an uncomfortable, but relatively
safe, nap in a recycling bin to this action in little more than an hour? Garnet Five
had taken six or seven hours to wake up. His high confidence in his judgment of Gupta's
account was suddenly shaken.
Roic, eyes narrowing, asked, Could your herm friend have gone renegade, m'lord? Or
been bribed?
Adjudicator Leutwyn looked to Greenlaw, who looked sick with uncertainty.
I would sooner doubt... myself, said Miles. And that was slandering Bel. Although
the portmaster might have been bribed with a nerve disruptor muzzle pressed to its
spine, or something equivalent. He wasn't sure he wanted to even try to imagine the
ba's bioweapon equivalent. Bel would play for time.
How could this ba find the portmaster when we couldn't? asked Leutwyn.
Miles hesitated. The ba wasn't hunting Bel. The ba was hunting Guppy. If the ba had
been closing in last night when Guppy counterattacked his shadowers... the ba might
have come along immediately after, or even been a witness. And allowed itself to be
diverted, or swapped its priorities, in the face of the unexpected opportunity to gain
access to its cargo through Bel.
What priorities? What did the ba want? Well, Gupta dead, certainly, doubly so now
that the amphibian was witness to both its initial clandestine operation, and to the
murders by which the ba had attempted to completely erase its trail. But for the ba to
have been so close to its target, and yet veer off, suggested that the other priority
was overwhelmingly more important to it.
The ba had spoken of utterly destroying its purportedly animal cargo; the ba had also
spoken of taking tissue samples for freezing. The ba had spoken lie upon lie, but
suppose this was the truth? Miles wheeled to stare down the aisle of racks. The image
formed itself in his mind: of the ba working all day, with relentless speed and
concentration. Loosening the lid of each replicator, stabbing through membrane, fluid,
and soft skin with a sampling needle, lining the needles up, row on row, in a freezer
unit the size of a small valise. Miniaturizing the essence of its genetic payload to
something it could carry away in one hand. At the cost of abandoning their originals?
Destroying the evidence?
Maybe it has, and we just can't see the effects yet. If the ba could make adult-sized
bodies steam away their own liquids within hours and turn to viscous puddles, what
could it do with such tiny ones?
The Cetagandan wasn't stupid. Its smuggling scheme might have gone according to plan,
but for the slipup with Gupta. Who had followed the ba here, and drawn in Solian -
whose disappearance had led to the muddle with Corbeau and Garnet Five, which had led
to the bungled raid on the quaddie security post, which had resulted in the impoundment
of the fleet, including the ba's precious cargo. Miles knew exactly how it felt to
watch a carefully planned mission slide down the toilet in a flush of random mischance.
How would the ba respond to that sick, heart-pounding desperation? Miles had almost no
sense of the person, despite meeting it twice. The ba was smooth and slick and self-
controlled. It could kill with a touch, smiling.
But if the ba was paring down its payload to a minimum mass, it certainly wouldn't
saddle its escape with a prisoner.
I think, said Miles, and had to stop and clear a throat gone dry. Bel would play
for time. But suppose time and ingenuity ran out, and no one came, and no one came, and
no one came... I think Bel might still be aboard the Idris. We must search the ship.
At once.
Roic stared around, looking daunted. All of it, m'lord?
He started to cry Yes! but his laggard brain converted it to, No. Bel had no access
codes beyond quaddie control of the airlock. The ba had codes only for this hold and
its own cabin. Anything that was locked before, should still be. For the first pass,
check unsecured spaces only.
Shouldn't we wait for Chief Venn's patrollers? asked Leutwyn uneasily.
If anyone even tries to come aboard who hasn't been exposed already, I swear I'll
stun them myself before they can get through the airlock. I'm not fooling. Miles's
voice was husky with conviction.
Leutwyn looked taken aback, but Greenlaw, after a frozen moment, nodded. I quite see
your point, Lord Auditor Vorkosigan. I must agree.
They spread out in pairs, the intent-looking Greenlaw followed by the somewhat
bewildered adjudicator, Roic determinedly keeping to Miles's shoulder. Miles tried the
ba's cabin first, to find it as empty as before. Four other cabins had been left
unlocked, three presumably because they had been cleared of possessions, the last
apparently through sheer carelessness. The infirmary was sealed, as it had been left
after Bel's inspection with the medtechs last evening. Nav and Com was fully secured.
On the deck above, the kitchen was open, as were some of the recreation areas, but no
cheeky Betan herm or unnaturally decomposed remains were to be found. Greenlaw and
Leutwyn passed through, to report that all of the other holds in the huge long cylinder
shared by the ba's cargo were still properly sealed. Venn, they discovered, had taken
over a comconsole in the passenger lounge; upon being apprised of Miles's new theory,
he paled and attached himself to Greenlaw. Five more nacelles to check.
On the deck below the passengers' zone, most of the utility and engineering areas
remained locked. But the door to the department of Small Repairs opened at Miles's
touch on its control pad.
Three adjoining chambers were full of benches, tools, and diagnostic equipment. In
the second chamber, Miles came upon a bench holding three deflated bod pods marked with
the Idris's logo and serial numbers. These tough-skinned human-sized balloons were
furnished with enough air recycling equipment and power to keep a passenger alive in a
pressurization emergency until rescue arrived. One had only to step inside, zip it up,
and hit the power-on button. Bod pods required a minimum of instruction, mostly because
there wasn't bloody much you could do once you were trapped inside one. Every cabin,
hold, and corridor on the ship had them, stored in emergency lockers on the walls.
On the floor beside the bench, one bod pod stood fully inflated, as if it had been
left there in the middle of testing by some tech when the ship had been evacuated by
the quaddies.
Miles stepped up to one of the pod's round plastic ports and peered through.
Bel sat inside, cross-legged, stark naked. The herm's lips were parted, and its eyes
glazed and distant. So still was that form, Miles feared he was looking at death
already, but then Bel's chest rose and fell, breasts trembling with the shivers racking
its body. On the blank face a fevered flush bloomed and faded.
No, God, no! Miles lunged for the pod's seal, but his hand stopped and fell back,
clenching so hard his nails bit into his palm like knives. No...
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Step One. Seal the biocontaminated area.
Had the entry lock been closed behind them when their party entered the Idris? Yes.
Had anyone opened it since?
Miles raised his wrist com to his lips and spoke Venn's contact code. Roic stepped
closer to the bod pod, but stopped at Miles's upflung hand; he ducked his head and
peered past Miles's shoulder, and his eyes widened.
The few seconds of delay while the wrist com's search program located Venn seemed to
flow by like cold oil. Finally, the crew chief's edgy voice: Venn here. What now, Lord
Vorkosigan?
We've found Portmaster Thorne. Trapped in a bod pod in the engineering section. The
herm appears dazed and very ill. I believe we have an urgent biocontamination emergency
here, at least Class Three and possibly as bad as Class Five. The most extreme level,
biowarfare plague. Where are you all now?
In the Number Two freight nacelle. The sealer and the adjudicator are with me.
No one has attempted to leave or enter the ship since we boarded? You didn't go out
for any reason?
No.
You understand the necessity for keeping it that way till we know what the devil
we're dealing with?
What, do you think I'd be insane enough to carry some hell-plague back onto my own
station?
Check. Very good, Crew Chief. I see we are of one mind in this. Step Two. Alert the
medical authority in your district. To each their own. I'm going to report this to
Admiral Vorpatril and request medical assistance. I presume Graf Station has its own
emergency protocols.
Just as soon as you get off my com link.
Right. At the earliest feasible moment, I also intend to break the tube seals and
move the ship a little way out of its docking cradle, just to be sure. If you or the
Sealer would warn station traffic control, plus clear whatever shuttle Vorpatril sends,
that would be most helpful. Meanwhile - I strongly urge you seal the locks between your
nacelle and this central section until... until we know more. Find the nacelle's
atmosphere controls and put yourselves on internal circulation, if you can. I
haven't... quite figured out what to do about this damned bod pod yet. Nai - Vorkosigan
out.
He cut the com and stared in anguish at the thin wall between him and Bel. How good a
biocontamination barrier was a sealed bod pod's skin? Probably quite good, for
something not purpose-built for the task. A new and horrible idea of just where to look
for Solian, or rather, whatever organic smear of the lieutenant might now remain,
presented itself inescapably to Miles's imagination.
With that jump of deduction came new hope and new terror. Solian had been disposed of
weeks ago, probably aboard this very vessel, at a time when passengers and crew had
been moving freely between the station and the ship. No plague had broken out yet. If
Solian had been dissolved by the same nightmare method Gupta testified had claimed his
shipmates, inside a bod pod, which was then folded and set out of the way... leaving
Bel in the pod with the seals unbroken might make everyone perfectly safe.
Everyone, of course, except Bel....
It was unclear if the incubation or latency period of the infection was adjustable,
although what Miles was seeing now suggested it was. Six days for Gupta and his
friends. Six hours for Bel? But the disease or poison or bio-molecular device, whatever
it was, had killed the Jacksonians quickly once it became active, in just a few hours.
How long did Bel have until intervention became futile? Before the herm's brains began
turning to some bubbling gray slime along with its body... ? Hours, minutes, too late
already? And what intervention could help?
Gupta survived this. Therefore, survival is possible. His mind dug into that
historical fact like pitons into a rock face. Hang on and climb, boy.
He held his wrist com to his lips and called up the emergency channel to Admiral
Vorpatril.
Vorpatril responded almost immediately. Lord Vorkosigan? The medical squad you
requested reached the quaddie station a few minutes ago. They should be reporting in to
you there momentarily to assist with the examination of your prisoner. Haven't they
presented themselves yet?
They may have, but I'm now aboard the Idris, along with Armsman Roic. And,
unfortunately, Sealer Greenlaw, Adjudicator Leutwyn, and Chief Venn. We've ordered the
ship sealed. We appear to have a biocontamination incident aboard. He repeated the
description of Bel he'd given Venn, with a few more details.
Vorpatril swore. Shall I send a personnel pod to take you off, my lord?
Absolutely not. If there's anything contagious loose in here - which, while not
certain, is not yet ruled out - it's um... already too late.
I'll divert my medical squad to you at once.
Not all of them, dammit. I want some of our people in with the quaddies, working on
Gupta. It is of the highest urgency to find out why he survived. Since we may be stuck
in here for a while, don't tie up more men than required. But do send me bright ones.
In Level Five biotainer suits. You can send any equipment they want aboard with them,
but nothing and no one goes back off this ship till this thing is locked down. Or
until the plague took them all... Miles had a vision of the Idris towed away from the
station and abandoned, the untouchable final tomb of all aboard. A damned expensive
sepulchre, there was that consolation. He had faced death before and, once at least,
lost, but the lonely ugliness of this one shook him badly. There would be no cheating
with cryochambers this time, he suspected. Not for the last victims to go, certainly.
Volunteers only, you understand me, Admiral?
That I do, said Vorpatril grimly. I'm on it, my Lord Auditor.
Good. Vorkosigan out.
How much time did Bel have? Half an hour? Two hours? How much time would it take
Vorpatril to muster his new set of medical volunteers and all their complex cargo? More
than half an hour, Miles was fairly certain. And what could they do when they got here?
Besides his genetic engineering, what had been different from the others about Gupta?
His tank? Breathing through his gills... Bel didn't have gills, no help there.
Cooling water, flowing over the froggish body, his fan-like webs, through the blood-
filled, feathery gills, chilling his blood... could some of this bio-dissolvent's
hellish development be heat-sensitive or temperature-triggered?
An ice-water bath? The vision sprang to his mind's eye, and his lips drew back on a
fierce grin. A low-tech, but provably fast, way to lower body temperature, no question
about it. He could personally guarantee the effects. Thank you, Ivan.
My lord? said Roic uncertainly to his apparent transfixed paralysis.
We run like hell now. You go to the galley and check for ice. If there isn't any,
start whatever machine they have full blast. Then meet me in the infirmary. He had to
move fast; he didn't have to be stupid about it. They may have biotainer gear there.
By the expression on Roic's face, he was notably not following any of this, but at
least he followed Miles, who boiled out and down the corridor. They rose up the lift
tube the two flights to the level that housed galley, infirmary, and recreation areas.
More out of breath than he cared to reveal, Miles waved Roic on his way and galloped to
the infirmary at the far end of the central nacelle. A frustrating pause while he
tapped out the locking code, and he was through into the little sickbay.
The facilities were scant: two small wards, although both with at least Level Three
bio-containment capabilities, plus an examining room equipped for minor surgery that
also harbored the pharmacy. Major surgeries and severe injuries were expected to be
transported to one of the military escort ship's more seriously equipped sickbays. Yes,
one of the ward's bathrooms included a sterilizable treatment tub; Miles pictured
unhappy passengers with skin infestations soaking therein. Lockers full of emergency
equipment. He jerked them all open. There was the blood synthesizer, there a drawer of
mysterious and unnerving objects perhaps designed for female patients, there was a
narrow float pallet for patient transport, standing on end in a tall locker with two
biotainer suits, yes! One too large for Miles, the other too small for Roic.
He could wear the too-large suit; it wouldn't be the first time. The other would be
impossible. He couldn't justify endangering Roic so...
Roic jogged in. Found the ice maker, m'lord. Nobody seems to have turned it off when
the ship was evacuated. It's packed full.
Miles pulled out his stunner and dropped it on the examining table, then began to
skin into the smaller biotainer suit.
What t'hell do you think you're doing, m'lord? asked Roic warily.
We're going to bring Bel up here. Or at least, I am. It's where the medics will want
to do treatments anyway. If there were any treatments. I have an idea for some quick-
and-dirty first aid. I think Guppy might have survived by the water in his tank keeping
his body temperature down. Head for engineering. Try to find a pressure suit that will
fit you. If - when you find the suit, let me know, and put it on at once. Then meet me
back where Bel is. Move!
Roic, face set, moved. Miles used the precious seconds to run to the galley and scoop
a plastic waste bin full of ice, and drag it back to the infirmary on the float pallet
to dump in the tub. Then a second bin full. Then his wrist com buzzed.
Found a suit, m'lord. It'll just fit, I think. Roic's voice wavered as, presumably,
his arm moved about. Some rustling and faint grunting indicated a successful test.
Once I'm in, I won't be able to use my secured wrist com. I'll have to access you over
some public channel.
We'll have to live with that. Make contact with Vorpatril on your suit com as soon
as you're sealed in; be sure his medics can communicate when they bring their pod to
one of the outboard locks. Make sure they don't try to come through the same freight
nacelle where the quaddies have taken refuge!
Right, m'lord.
Meet you in Small Repairs.
Right, m'lord. Suiting up now. The channel went muffled.
Regretfully, Miles covered his own wrist com with the biotainer suit's left glove. He
tucked his stunner into one of the sealable outer pockets on the thigh, then adjusted
his oxygen flow with a few taps on the suit's control vambrace on his left arm. The
lights in the helmet faceplate display promised him he was now sealed from his
environment. The slight positive pressure within the overlarge suit puffed it out
plumply. He slopped toward the lift tube in the loose boots, towing the float pallet.
Roic was just clumping down the corridor as Miles maneuvered the pallet through the
door of Small Repairs. The armsman's pressure suit, marked with the Idris's engineering
department's serial numbers, was certainly as much protection as Miles's gear, although
its gloves were thicker and more clumsy. Miles motioned Roic to bend toward him,
touching his faceplate to Roic's helmet.
We're going to reduce the pressure in the bod pod to partially deflate it, roll Bel
onto the float pallet, and run it upstairs. I'm not going to unseal the pod till we're
in the ward with the molecular barriers activated.
Shouldn't we wait for the Prince Xav's medics for that, m'lord? asked Roic
nervously. They'll be here soon enough.
No. Because I don't know how soon too late is. I don't dare vent Bel's pod into the
ship's atmosphere, so I'm going to try to rig a line to another pod as a catchment.
Help me look for sealing tape, and something to use for an air pipe.
Roic gave him a rather frustrated gesture of acknowledgment, and began a survey of
benches and drawers.
Miles peered in the port again. Bel? Bel! he shouted through faceplate and bod
skin. Muffled, yes, but he should be audible, dammit. We're going to move you. Hang on
in there.
Bel sat unchanged, apparently, from a few minutes ago, still glazed and unresponsive.
It might not be the infection, Miles tried to encourage himself. How many drugs had the
herm been hit with last night, to assure its cooperation? Knocked out by Gupta,
stimulated to consciousness by the ba, tanked with hypnotics, presumably, for the walk
to the Idris and the scam of the quaddie guards. Maybe fast-penta after that, and some
sedatives to keep Bel quiescent while the poison took hold, who knew?
Miles shook out one of the other pods onto the floor nearby. If the residue of Solian
lay therein, well, this wasn't going to make it any more contaminated, now was it? And
would Bel's remains have escaped notice for as long as Solian's, if Miles hadn't come
along so soon - was that the ba's plan? Murder and dispose of the body in one move....
He knelt to the side of Bel's bod pod and opened the access panel to the
pressurization control unit. Roic handed down a length of plastic tubing and strips of
tape. Miles wrapped, prayed, and turned assorted valve controls. The air pump vibrated
gently. The pod's round outline softened and slumped. The second pod expanded, after a
flaccid, wrinkled fashion. He closed valves, cut lines, sealed, wished for a few liters
of disinfectant to splash around. He held the fabric up away from the lump that was
Bel's head as Roic lifted the herm onto the pallet.
The pallet moved at a brisk walking pace; Miles longed to run. They maneuvered the
load into the infirmary, into the small ward. As close as possible to the rather
cramped bathroom.
Miles motioned Roic to bend close again.
All right. This is as far as you go. We don't both need to be in here for this. I
want you to exit the room and turn on the molecular barriers. Then stand ready to
assist the medics from the Prince Xav as needed.
M'lord, are you sure you wouldn't rather we do it t'other way around?
I'm sure. Go!
Roic exited reluctantly. Miles waited till the lines of blue light indicating that
the barriers had been activated sprang into being across the doorway, then bent to
unzip the pod and fold it back from Bel's tensed, trembling body. Even through his
gloves, Bel's bare skin felt scorching hot.
Edging both the pallet and himself into the bathroom involved some awkward
clambering, but at last he had Bel positioned to shift into the waiting vat of ice and
water. Heave, slide, splash. He cursed the pallet and lunged over it to hold Bel's head
up. Bel's body jerked in shock; Miles wondered if his shakily theorized palliative
would instead give the victim heart failure. He shoved the pallet back out the door,
and out of the way, with one foot. Bel was now trying to curl into a fetal position, a
more heartening response than the open-eyed coma Miles had observed so far. Miles
pulled the bent limbs down one by one and held them under the ice water.
Miles fingers grew numb with the cold, except where they touched Bel. The herm's body
temperature seemed scarcely affected by this brutal treatment. Unnatural indeed. But at
least Bel stopped growing hotter. The ice was melting noticeably.
It had been some years since Miles had last glimpsed Bel nude, in a field shower or
donning or divesting space armor in a mercenary warship locker room. Fifty-something
wasn't old, for a Betan, but still, gravity was clearly gaining on Bel. On all of us.
In their Dendarii days Bel had taken out its unrequited lust for Miles in a series of
half-joking passes, half-regretfully declined. Miles repented his younger sexual
reticence altogether, now. Profoundly. We should have taken our chances back then, when
we were young and beautiful and didn't even know it. And Bel had been beautiful, in its
own ironic way, living and moving at ease in a body athletic, healthy, and trim.
Bel's skin was blotched, mottled red and pale; the herm's flesh, sliding and turning
in the ice bath under Miles's anxious hands, had an odd texture, by turns swollen tight
or bruised like crushed fruit. Miles called Bel's name, tried his best old Admiral
Naismith Commands You voice, told a bad joke, all without penetrating the herm's glazed
stupor. It was a bad idea to cry in a biotainer suit, almost as bad as throwing up in a
pressure suit. You couldn't blot your eyes, or wipe your snot.
And when someone touched you unexpectedly on the shoulder, you jumped as though shot,
and they looked at you funny, through their faceplate and yours.
Lord Auditor Vorkosigan, are you all right? said the Prince Xav's biotainer-
swaddled surgeon, as he knelt beside him at the vat's edge.
Miles swallowed for self-control. I'm fine, so far. This herm's in a very bad way. I
don't know what they've told you about all this.
I was told that I might be dealing with a possible Cetagandan-designed bioweapon in
hot mode, that had killed three so far with one survivor. The part about there being a
survivor made me really wonder about the first assertion.
Ah, you didn't get a chance to see Guppy yet, then. Miles took a breath and ran
through a brief recap of Gupta's tale, or at least the pertinent biological aspects of
it. As he spoke, his hands never stopped shoving Bel's arms and legs back down, or
ladling watery ice cubes over the herm's burning head and neck. He finished, I don't
know if it was Gupta's amphibian genetics, or something he did, that allowed him to
survive this hell-shit when his friends didn't. Guppy said their dead flesh steamed. I
don't know what all this heat's coming from, but it can't be just fever. I couldn't
duplicate the Jacksonian's bioengineering, but I thought I could at least duplicate the
water tank trick. Wild-assed empiricism, but I didn't think there was much time.
A gloved hand reached past him to raise Bel's eyelids, touch the herm here and there,
press and probe. I see that.
It's really important - Miles took another gulp of air to stabilize his voice -
it's really important that this patient survive. Thorne's not just any stationer. Bel
was... He realized he didn't know the surgeon's security clearance. Having the
portmaster die on our watch would be a diplomatic disaster. Another one, that is.
And... and the herm saved my life yesterday. I owe - Barrayar owes -
My lord, we'll do our best. I have my top squad here; we'll take over now. Please,
my Lord Auditor, if you could please step out and let your man decontaminate you?
Another suited figure, doctor or medtech, appeared through the bathroom door and held
out a tray of instruments to the surgeon. Perforce Miles moved aside, as the first
sampling needle plunged past him into Bel's unresponsive flesh. No room left in here
even for his shortness, he had to admit. He withdrew.
The spare ward bunk had been turned into a lab bench. A third biotainer-clad figure
was rapidly shifting what looked a promising array of equipment from boxes and bins
piled high on a float pallet onto this makeshift surface. The second tech returned from
the bathroom and started feeding bits of Bel into the various chemical and molecular
analyzers on one end of the bunk even as the third man arranged more devices on the
other.
Roic's tall, pressure-suited figure stood waiting just past the molecular barriers
across the ward door. He was holding a high-powered laser-sonic decontaminator,
familiar Barrayaran military issue. He raised an inviting hand; Miles returned the
acknowledgment.
Nothing further was to be gained in here by dithering more at the medical squad. He'd
just distract them and get in their way. He suppressed his unstrung urge to explain to
them Bel's superior right, by old valor and love, to survive. Futile. He might as well
rail at the microbes themselves. Even the Cetagandans had not yet devised a weapon that
triaged for virtue before slaughtering its victims.
I promised to call Nicol. God, why did I promise that? Learning Bel's present status
would surely be more terrifying for her than knowing nothing. He would wait a little
longer, at least till he received the first report from the surgeon. If there was hope
by then, he could impart it. If there was none...
He stepped slowly through the buzzing molecular barrier, raising his arms to turn
about beneath the even stronger sonic-scrubber/laser-dryer beam from Roic's
decontaminator. He had Roic treat every part of him, including palms, fingers, the
soles of his feet, and, nervously, the insides of his thighs. The suit protected him
from what would otherwise be a nasty scorching, leaving skin pink and hair exploded
off. He didn't motion Roic to desist till they'd gone over each square centimeter.
Twice.
Roic pointed to Miles's control vambrace and bellowed through his faceplate, I have
the ship's com link relay up and running now, m'lord. You should be able to hear me
through Channel Twelve, if you'll switch over. T'medics are all on Thirteen.
Hastily, Miles switched on the suit com. Can you hear me?
Roic's voice sounded now beside his ear. Yes, m'lord. Much better.
Have we blown the tube seals and pulled away from the docking clamps yet?
Roic looked faintly chagrined. No, m'lord. At Miles's chin raised in inquiry, he
added, Um... you see, there's only me. I've never piloted a jumpship.
Unless you're actually jumping, it's just like a shuttle, Miles assured him. Only
bigger.
I've never piloted a shuttle, either.
Ah. Well, come on, then. I'll show you how.
They threaded their way to Nav and Com; Roic tapped their passage through the code
locks. All right, Miles admitted, looking around at the various station chairs and
their control banks, so it was a big ship. It was only going to be a ten-meter flight.
He was a bit out of practice even on pods and shuttles, but really, given some of the
pilots he'd known, how hard could it be?
Roic watched in earnest admiration while he concealed his hunt for the tube seal
controls - ah, there. It took three tries to get in touch with station traffic control,
and then with Docks and Locks - if only Bel had been here, he would have instantly
delegated this task to... He bit his lip, rechecking the all-clear from the loading bay
- it would be the cap on this mission's multitude of embarrassments to pull away from
the station yanking out the docking clamps, decompressing the loading bay, and killing
some unknown number of quaddie patrollers on guard therein. He scooted from the
communications station to the pilot's chair, shoving the jump helmet up out of the way
and clenching his gloved hands briefly before activating the manual controls. A little
gentle pressure from the side verniers, a little patience, and a countering thrust from
the opposite side left the vast bulk of the Idris floating in space a neat stone's
throw from the side of Graf Station. Not that a stone thrown out there would do
anything but keep on going forever...
No bio-plague can cross that gap, he thought with satisfaction, then instantly
thought of what the Cetagandans might do with spores. I hope.
It occurred to him belatedly that if the Prince Xav's surgeon sounded an all-clear
from the biocontamination alert, docking once again was going to be a critically more
delicate task. Well, if he clears the ship, we can import a pilot then. He glanced at
the time on a wall digital. Barely an hour had passed since they'd found Bel. It seemed
a century.
You're a pilot, as well? a surprised, muffled female voice sounded.
Miles swung around in the pilot's chair to find the three quaddies in their floaters
hovering in the control room's doorway. All now wore quaddie-shaped biotainer suits in
pale medical green. His eye rapidly sorted them out. Venn was bulkier, Sealer Greenlaw
a little shorter. Adjudicator Leutwyn brought up the rear.
Only in an emergency, he admitted. Where did you get the suits?
My people sent them across from the station in a drone pod, said Venn. He, too,
wore his stunner holstered on the outside of his suit.
Miles would have preferred to keep the civilians safely locked down in the freight
nacelle, but there was clearly no help for that now.
Which is still attached to the lock, yes, Venn overrode Miles's opening mouth.
Thank you, said Miles meekly.
He wanted desperately to rub his face and scrub his itching eyes, but couldn't. What
was next? Had he done all he could to contain this thing? His eye fell on the
decontaminator, slung over Roic's shoulder. It would probably be a good idea to take
that back down to Engineering and sterilize their tracks.
M'lord?' said Roic diffidently.
Yes, Armsman?
I been thinking. The night guard saw the portmaster and the ba enter the ship, but
nobody reported anybody leaving. We found Thorne. I was wondering how the ba got off
the ship.
Thank you, Roic, yes. And how long ago. Good question to pursue next.
Whenever one of the Idris's hatches opens, its lock vid recorders start up
automatically. We should ought to be able to access t'lock records from here, I'd
think, same as from Solian's security office. Roic cast a somewhat desperate eye
around the intimidating array of stations. Somewhere.
We should indeed. Miles abandoned the pilot's chair for the flight engineer's
station. A little poking among the controls, and a short delay while one of Roic's
library of override codes pacified the lockdowns, and Miles was able to bring up a
duplicate file of the sort of airlock security records they'd found in Solian's office
and spent so many bleary-eyed hours studying. He set the search to present the data in
reverse order of time.
The most recent usage was first up on the vid plate, a nice shot of the automated
drone pod docking at the outboard personnel lock serving the number two freight
nacelle. An anxious-looking Venn scooted into the lock in his floater. He shuttled in
and out handing back green suits folded in plastic bags to waiting hands, plus an
assortment of other objects: a big box of first aid supplies, a tool kit, a
decontaminator somewhat resembling Roic's, and what might be some weapons with rather
more authority than stunners. Miles cut the scene short and sent the search back in
time.
Mere minutes before that was the Barrayaran military medical patrol arriving in a
small shuttle from the Prince Xav, entering via one of the number four nacelle
personnel locks. The three medical officers and Roic were all clearly identifiable,
hastily unloading equipment.
A freight lock in one of the Necklin drive nacelles popped up next, and Miles caught
his breath. A figure in a bulky extravehicular-repairs suit marked with serial numbers
from the Idris's engineering section lumbered heavily past the vid pickup, and departed
into the vacuum with a brief puff of suit jets. The quaddies bobbing at Miles's
shoulder murmured and pointed; Greenlaw muffled an exclamation, and Venn choked on a
curse.
The next record back in time was of themselves - the three quaddies, Miles, and Roic
- entering the ship from the loading bay for their inspection, however many hours ago
it had been. Miles tapped instantly back to the mystery figure in the engineering suit.
What time... ?
Roic exclaimed, Look, m'lord! He - it - was getting away not twenty minutes before
we found t'portmaster! The ba must've still been aboard when we came on! Even through
his faceplate, his face took on a greenish tinge.
Had Bel's conundrum in the bod pod been a fiendishly engineered delaying tactic?
Miles wondered if the knotted feeling in his stomach and tightness in his throat could
be the first sign of a bioengineered plague....
Is that our suspect? asked Leutwyn anxiously. Where did he go?
What is the range on those heavy suits of yours, do you know, Lord Auditor? asked
Venn urgently.
Those? Not sure. They're meant to allow men to work outside the ship for hours at a
time, so I'd guess, if they were fully topped up with oxygen, propellant, and power...
damned near the range of a small personnel pod. The engineering repair suits resembled
military space armor, except with an array of built-in tools instead of built-in
weapons. Too heavy for even a strong man to walk in, they were fully powered. The ba
might have ridden in one around to any point on Graf Station. Worse, the ba might have
ridden out to a mid-space pickup by some Cetagandan co-agent, or perhaps by some bribed
or simply bamboozled local helper. The ba might be thousands of kilometers away by now,
with the gap widening every second. Heading for entry to another quaddie habitat under
yet another faked identity, or even for rendezvous with a passing jumpship and escape
from Quaddiespace altogether.
Station Security is on full emergency alert, said Venn. I have all my patrollers
and all of the Sealer's militia on duty out looking for the fellow - the person.
Dubauer can't have gotten back aboard the station unobserved. A tremor of doubt in
Venn's voice undercut the certainty of this statement.
I've ordered the station onto a full biocontamination quarantine, said Greenlaw.
All incoming ships and vehicles have been waved off or diverted to Union, and none now
in dock are cleared to leave. If the fugitive did get back aboard already - it isn't
leaving. Judging by the sealer's congealed expression, she was by no means sure if
this was a good thing. Miles sympathized. Fifty thousand potential hostages... If it's
fled somewhere else... if our people can't locate this fugitive promptly, I'm going to
have to extend the quarantine throughout Quaddiespace.
What would be the most important task for the ba, now that the flag had been dropped?
It had to realize that the tight secrecy it had relied on for protection thus far was
irremediably ruptured. Did it realize how close on its heels its pursuers had come?
Would it still wish to murder Gupta to assure the Jacksonian smuggler's silence? Or
would it abandon that hunt, cut losses, and run if it could? Which direction was it
trying to move, back in, or out?
Miles's eye fell on the vid image of the work suit, frozen above the plate. Did that
suit have the kind of telemetry space armor did? More to the point - did it have the
kind of remote control overrides some space armor did?
Roic! When you were down in the engineering suit lockers hunting for that pressure
suit, did you see an automated command-and-control station for these powered repair
units?
I... there's a control room down there, yes, m'lord. I passed it. I don't know what
all might be in it.
I have an idea. Follow me.
He levered himself from the station chair and left Nav and Com at a sloppy jog, his
biotainer suit sliding aggravatingly around him. Roic strode after; the curious
quaddies followed in their floaters.
The control room was scarcely more than a booth, but it featured a telemetry station
for exterior maintenance and repairs. Miles slid into its station chair, and cursed the
tall person who'd fixed it at a height that left his boots dangling in air. On
permanent display were several real-time vid shots of critical portions of the ship's
outlying anatomy, including directional antenna arrays, the mass shield generator, and
the main normal-space thrusters. Miles sorted through a bewildering mess of data from
structural safety sensors scattered throughout the ship. Finally, the work suit control
program came up.
Six suits in the array. Miles called up visual telemetry from their helmet vids. Five
returned views of blank walls, the insides of their respective storage lockers. The
sixth returned a lighter image, but more puzzling, of a curving wall. It remained as
static as the vistas from the suits in storage.
Miles pinged the suit for full telemetry download. The suit was powered up but
quiescent. The medical sensors were basic, just heart rate and respiration - and turned
off. The life-support readouts claimed the rebreather was fully functional, the
interior humidity and temperature were exactly on-spec, but the system appeared to be
supporting no load.
It can't be very far away, Miles said over his shoulder to his hovering audience.
There's zero time lag in my com linkup.
That's a relief, sighed Greenlaw.
Is it? muttered Leutwyn. Who for?
Miles stretched shoulders aching with tension, and bent again to the displays. The
powered suit had to have an exterior control override somewhere; it was a common safety
feature on these civilian models, in case its occupant should suddenly become injured,
ill, or incapacitated... ah. There.
What are you doing, m'lord? asked Roic uneasily.
I believe I can take control of the suit via the emergency overrides, and bring it
back aboard.
Wit' t' ba inside? Is that a good idea?
We'll know in a moment.
He gripped the joysticks, slippery under his gloves, gained control of the suit's
jets, and tried a gentle puff. The suit slowly began to move, scraping along the wall
and then turning away. The puzzling view resolved itself - he was looking at the
outside of the Idris itself. The suit had been hidden, tucked in the angle between two
nacelles. No one inside the suit fought back at this hijacking. A new and extremely
disturbing thought crept up on Miles.
Carefully, Miles brought the suit back around the outside of the ship to the nearest
lock to Engineering, on the outboard side of one of the Necklin rod nacelles, the same
lock from which it had exited. Opened the lock, brought the suit inside. Its servos
kept it upright. The light reflected from its faceplate, concealing whatever was
within. Miles did not open the interior lock door.
Now what? he said to the room at large.
Venn glanced at Roic. Your armsman and I have stunners, I believe. If you control
the suit, you control the prisoner's movements. Bring it in, and we'll arrest the
bastard.
The suit has manual capacities, too. Anyone in it who was... alive and conscious
should have been able to fight me. Miles cleared a throat thick with worry. I was
just wondering if Brun's searchers checked inside these suits when they were looking
for Solian, that first day he went missing. And, um... what he's like - what condition
his body might be in by now.
Roic made a small noise, and emitted an undervoiced, plaintive protest of M'lord!
Miles wasn't sure of the exact interpretation, but he thought it might have something
to do with Roic wanting to keep his last meal in his stomach, and not all over the
inside of his helmet.
After a brief, fraught pause, Venn said, Then we'd better go have a look. Sealer,
Adjudicator - wait here.
The two senior officials didn't argue.
Would you like to stay with 'em, m'lord? Roic suggested tentatively.
We've all been looking for that poor bastard for weeks, Miles replied firmly. If
this is him, I want to be the first to know. He did allow Roic and Venn to precede him
from engineering through the locks into the Necklin field generator nacelle, though.
At the lock, Venn drew his stunner and took position. Roic peered through the port on
the airlock's inner door. Then his hand swept down to the lock control, the door slid
open, and he strode in. He reappeared a moment later, half-dragging the heavy toppling
work suit. He laid it faceup on the corridor floor.
Miles ventured closer and stared down at the faceplate.
The suit was empty.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Don't open it! cried Venn in alarm.
Wasn't planning to, Miles replied mildly. Not for any money.
Venn floated closer, stared down over Miles's shoulder, and swore. The bastard's got
away already! But to the station, or to a ship? He edged back, tucked his stunner away
in a pocket of his green suit, and began to gabble into his helmet com, alerting both
Station Security and the quaddie militia to pursue, seize, and search anything - ship,
pod, or shuttle - that had so much as shifted its parking zone off the side of the
station in the past three hours.
Miles envisioned the escape. Might the ba have ridden the repairs suit back aboard
the station before Greenlaw had called down the quarantine? Yes, maybe. The time window
was narrow, but possible. But in that case, how had it returned the suit to the hiding
place outside the Idris? It would make more sense for the ba to have been picked up by
a personnel pod - plenty enough of them zipping around out there at all hours - and
have prodded the suit back to its concealment with a tractor beam, or had it towed
there by someone in another powered suit and tucked out of sight.
But the Idris, like all the other Barrayaran and Komarran ships, was under
surveillance by the quaddie militia. How cursory was that outside guard? Surely not
that inattentive. Yet a person, a tall person, sitting in that engineering control
booth manipulating the joysticks, might well have walked the suit out this airlock and
quickly around the nacelle, popping it away out of sight deftly enough to evade notice
by the militia guardians. Then risen from the station chair, and... ?
Miles's palms itched, maddeningly, inside his gloves, and he rubbed them together in
a futile attempt to gain relief. He'd have traded blood for the chance to rub his nose.
Roic, he said slowly. Do you remember what this, he prodded the repair suit with
his toe, had in its hand when it went out the airlock?
Um... nothing, m'lord. Roic twisted slightly and shot Miles a puzzled look, through
his faceplate.
That's what I thought. Right.
If Miles was guessing correctly, the ba had turned aside from the imminent murder of
Gupta to seize the chance of using Bel to get back aboard the Idris and do - what? -
with its cargo. Destroy it? It would surely not have taken the ba this long to
inoculate the replicators with some suitable poison. It might even have been able to do
them twenty at a time, introducing the contaminant into the support system of each
rack. Or - even more simply, if all it had wanted was to kill its charges - it might
have just turned off all the support systems, a work of mere minutes. But taking and
marking individual cell samples for freezing, yes, that could well have taken all
night, and all day too. If the ba had risked everything to do that, would it then leave
the ship without its freezer case firmly in hand?
The ba's had over two hours to effect an escape. Surely it wouldn't linger...
muttered Miles. But his voice lacked conviction. Roic, at least, caught the quaver at
once; his helmet turned toward Miles, and he frowned.
They needed to count pressure suits, and check every lock to see if any of the vid
monitors had been manually disabled. No, too slow - that would be a fine evidence-
collecting task to delegate if one had the manpower, but Miles felt painfully bereft of
minions just now. And in any case, so what if another suit was found to be gone?
Pursuing loose suits was a job that the quaddies around the station were already
turning to, by Venn's order. But if no other suit was gone...
And Miles himself had just turned the Idris into a trap.
He gulped. I was about to say, we need to count suits, but I've a better idea. I
believe we should return to Nav and Com, and shut the ship down in sections from there.
Collect all the weapons at our disposal, and do a systematic search.
Venn jerked around in his float chair. What, do you think this Cetagandan agent
could still be aboard?
M'lord, said Roic in an uncharacteristically sharp voice, what t'matter with your
gloves?
Miles stared down, turning up his hands. His breath congealed in his chest. The thin,
tough fabric of his biotainer gloves was shredding away, hanging loose in strings;
beneath the lattice, his palms showed red. Their itching seemed to redouble. His breath
let loose again in a snarl of Shit!
Venn bobbed closer, took in the damage with widening eyes, and recoiled.
Miles held his hands up, and apart. Venn. Go collect Greenlaw and Leutwyn and take
over Nav and Com. Secure yourselves and the infirmary, in that order. Roic. Go ahead of
me to the infirmary. Open the doors for me. He choked back an unnecessary scream of
Run!; Roic, with an indrawn breath audible over the suit com, was already moving.
He dodged through the half-dark ship in Roic's long-legged wake, touching nothing,
expecting every lumping heartbeat to rupture inside him. Where had he collected this
hellish contamination? Was anyone else affected? Everyone else?
No. It had to have been the power-suit control joysticks. They'd slid greasily under
his gloved hands. He had gripped them tighter, intent upon the task of bringing the
suit back inboard. He'd taken the bait... Now, more than ever, he was certain the ba
had walked an empty suit out the airlock. And then set a snare for any smartass who
figured it out too soon.
He plunged through the door to the infirmary, past Roic, who stood aside, and
straight on through the blue-lit inner door to the bio-sealed ward. A medtech's suited
form jumped in surprise. Miles called up Channel 13 and rapped out, Someone please...
then stopped. He'd meant to cry, Turn on the water for me! and hold his hands under the
sluice of a sink, but where did the water then go? Help, he finished in a smaller
voice.
What is it, my Lord Audi - the chief surgeon began, stepping from the bathroom;
then his glance took in Miles's upraised hands. What happened?
I think I hit a booby trap. As soon as you have a free tech, have Armsman Roic take
him down to Engineering and collect a sample from the repair suit remote controller
there. It appears to have been painted with some powerful corrosive or enzyme and...
and I don't know what else.
Sonic scrubber, Captain Clogston snapped over his shoulder to the tech monitoring
the makeshift lab bench. The man hastened to rummage among the stacks of supplies. He
turned back, powering on the device; Miles held out both his burning hands. The machine
roared as the tech ran the directed beam of vibration over the afflicted areas, its
powerful vacuum sucking the loosened detritus both macroscopic and microscopic into the
sealed collection bag. The surgeon leaned in with a scalpel and tongs, slicing and
tearing away the remaining shreds of gloves, which were also sucked into the
receptacle.
The scrubber seemed effective; Miles's hands stopped feeling worse, though they
continued to throb. Was his skin breached? He brought his now-bare palms closer to his
faceplate, impeding the surgeon, who hissed under his breath. Yes. Red flecks of blood
welled in the creases of the swollen tissue. Shit. Shit. Shit....
Clogston straightened and glanced around, lips drawn back in a grimace. Your
biotainer suit's compromised all to hell, my lord.
There's another pair of gloves on the other suit, Miles pointed out. I could
cannibalize them.
Not yet. Clogston hurried to slather Miles's hands with some mystery goo and wrap
them in biotainer barriers, sealed to his wrists. It was like wearing mittens over
handfuls of snot, but the burning pain eased. Across the room, the tech was scraping
fragments of contaminated glove into an analyzer. Was the third man in with Bel? Was
Bel still in the ice bath? Still alive?
Miles took a deep, steadying breath. Do you have any kind of a diagnosis on
Portmaster Thorne yet?
Oh, yes, it came up right away, said Clogston in a somewhat absent tone, still
sealing the second wrist wrap. The instant we ran the first blood sample through. What
the hell we can do about it is not yet obvious, but I have some ideas. He straightened
again, frowning deeply at Miles's hands. The herm's blood and tissues are crawling
with artificial - that is, bioengineered - parasites. He glanced up. They appear to
have an initial, latent, asymptomatic phase, where they multiply rapidly throughout the
body. Then, at some point - possibly triggered by their own concentration - they switch
over to producing two chemicals in different vesicles within their own cellular
membrane. The vesicles engorge. A rise in the victim's body temperature triggers the
bursting of the sacs, and the chemicals in turn undergo a violently exothermic reaction
with each other - killing the parasite, damaging the host's surrounding tissues, and
stimulating more nearby parasites to go off. Tiny, pin-point bombs all through the
body. It's - his tone went reluctantly admiring - extremely elegant. In a hideous
sort of way.
Did - did my ice-water bath treatment help Thorne, then?
Yes, absolutely. The drop in core temperature stopped the cascade in its tracks,
temporarily. The parasites had almost reached critical concentration.
Miles's eyes squeezed shut in brief gratitude. And opened again. Temporarily?
I still haven't figured out how to get rid of the damned things. We're trying to
modify a surgical shunt into a blood filter to both mechanically remove the parasites
from the patient's bloodstream, and chill the blood to a controlled degree before
returning it to the body. I think I can make the parasites respond selectively to an
applied electrophoresis gradient across the shunt tube, and pull them right on out of
the bloodstream.
Won't that do it, then?
Clogston shook his head. It doesn't get the parasites lodged in other tissues,
reservoirs of reinfection. It's not a cure, but it might buy time. I think. The cure
must somehow kill every last one of the parasites in the body, or the process will just
start up again. His lips twisted. Internal vermicides could be tricky. Injecting
something to kill already-engorged parasites within the tissues will just release their
chemical loads. A very little of that micro-insult will play hell with circulation,
overload repair processes, cause intense pain - it's... it's tricky.
Destroy brain tissue? Miles asked, feeling sick.
Eventually. They don't seem to cross the blood-brain barrier very readily. I believe
the victim would be conscious to a, um, very late phase of the dissolution.
Oh. Miles tried to decide whether that would be good, or bad.
On the bright side, offered the surgeon, I may be able to downgrade the
biocontamination alarm from Level Five to Level Three. The parasites appear to need
direct blood-to-blood contact to effect transference. They don't seem to survive long
outside a host.
They can't travel through the air?
Clogston hesitated. Well, maybe not until the host starts coughing blood.
Until, not unless. Miles noted the word choice. I'm afraid talk of a downgrade is
premature anyway. A Cetagandan agent armed with unknown bioweapons - well, unknown
except for this one, which is getting too damned familiar - is still on the loose out
there. He inhaled, carefully, and forced his voice to calm. We've found some evidence
suggesting that the agent still may be hiding aboard this ship. You need to secure your
work zone from a possible intruder.
Captain Clogston cursed. Hear that, boys? he called to his techs over his suit com.
Oh, great, came a disgusted reply. Just what we need right now.
Hey, at least it's something we can shoot, another voice remarked wistfully.
Ah, Barrayarans. Miles's heart warmed. On sight, he confirmed. These were military
medicos; they all bore sidearms, bless them.
His eye flicked over the ward and the infirmary chamber beyond, summing weak points.
Only one entry, but was that weakness or strength? The outer door was definitely the
vantage to hold, protecting the ward beyond; Roic had taken up station there quite
automatically. Yet traditional attack by stunner, plasma arc, or explosive grenade
seemed... insufficiently imaginative. The place was still on ship's air circulation and
ship's power, but this of all sections had to have its own emergency reservoirs of
both.
The military-grade Level Five biotainer suits the medicos wore also doubled as
pressure suits, their air circulation entirely internal. The same was not true of
Miles's cheaper suit, even before he'd lost his gloves; his atmosphere pack drew air
from the environs, through filters and cookers. In the event of a pressurization loss,
his suit would turn into a stiff, unwieldy balloon, perhaps even rupture at a weak
point. There were bod pod lockers on the walls, of course. Miles pictured being trapped
in a bod pod while the action went on without him.
Given that he was already exposed to... whatever, peeling out of his biotainer suit
long enough to get into something tighter couldn't make things any worse, could it? He
stared at his hands and wondered why he wasn't dead yet. Could the glop he'd touched
have been only a simple corrosive?
Miles clawed his stunner out of his thigh pocket, awkwardly with his mittened hand,
and walked back through the blue bars of light marking the bio-barrier. Roic. I want
you to dash back down to Engineering and grab me the smallest pressure suit you can
find. I'll guard this point till you get back.
M'lord, Roic began in a tone of doubt.
Keep your stunner out; watch your back. We're all here, so if you see anything move
that isn't quaddie green, shoot first.
Roic swallowed manfully. Yes, well, see that you stay here, m'lord. Don't go haring
off on your own without me!
I wouldn't dream of it, Miles promised.
Roic departed at the gallop. Miles readjusted his awkward grip on the stunner, made
sure it was set to maximum power, and took a stance partly sheltered by the door,
staring up the central corridor at his bodyguard's retreating form. Scowling.
I don't understand this.
Something didn't add up, and if he could just get ten consecutive minutes not filled
with lethal new tactical crises, maybe it would come to him.... He tried not to think
about his stinging palms, and what ingenious microbial sneak assault might even now be
stealing through his body, maybe even making its way into his brain.
An ordinary imperial servitor ba ought to have died before abandoning a charge like
those haut-filled replicators. And even if this one had been trained as some sort of
special agent, why spend all that critical time taking samples from the fetuses that it
was about to desert or maybe even destroy? Every haut infant ever made had its DNA kept
on file back in the central gene banks of the Star Creche. They could make more,
surely. What made this batch so irreplaceable?
His train of thought derailed itself as he imagined little gengineered parasites
multiplying frenetically through his bloodstream, blip-blip-blip-blip. Calm down,
dammit. He didn't actually know if he'd even been inoculated with the same evil disease
as Bel. Yeah, it might be something even worse. Yet surely some Cetagandan designer
neurotoxin - or even some quite ordinary off-the-shelf poison - ought to cut in much
faster than this. Although if it's a drug to drive the victim mad with paranoia, it's
working really well. Was the ba's repertoire of hell-potions limited? If it had any,
why not many? Whatever stimulants or hypnotics it had used on Bel need not have been
anything out of the ordinary, by the norms of covert ops. How many other fancy bio-
tricks did it have up its sleeve? Was Miles about to personally demonstrate the next
one?
Am I going to live long enough to say good-bye to Ekaterin? A good-bye kiss was right
out, unless they pressed their lips to opposite sides of some really thick window of
glass. He had so much to say to her; it seemed impossible to find where to start. Even
more impossible by voice alone, over an open, unsecured public com link. Take care of
the kids. Kiss them for me every night at bedtime, and tell them I loved them even if I
never saw them. You won't be alone - my parents will help you. Tell my parents... tell
them...
Was this damned thing starting up already, or were the hot panic and choking tears in
his throat entirely self-induced? An enemy that attacked you from the inside out - you
could try to turn yourself inside out to fight it, but you wouldn't succeed - filthy
weapon! Open channel or not, I'm calling her now....
Instead, Venn's voice sounded in his ear. Lord Vorkosigan, pick up Channel Twelve.
Your Admiral Vorpatril wants you. Badly.
Miles hissed through his teeth and keyed his helmet com over. Vorkosigan here.
Vorkosigan, you idiot - ! The admiral's syntax had shed a few honorifics sometime
in the past hour. What the hell is going on over there? Why don't you answer your
wrist com?
It's inside my biotainer suit and inaccessible right now. I'm afraid I had to don
the suit in a hurry. Be aware, this helmet link is an open access channel and
unsecured, sir. Dammit, where did that sir drop in from? Habit, sheer old bad habit.
You can ask for a brief report from Captain Clogston over his military suit's tight-
beam link, but keep it short. He's a very busy man right now, and I don't want him
distracted.
Vorpatril swore - whether generally or at the Imperial Auditor was left nicely
ambiguous - and clicked off.
Faintly echoing through the ship came the sound Miles had been waiting for - the
distant clanks and hisses of airseal doors shutting down, sealing the ship into
airtight sections. The quaddies had made it to Nav and Com, good! Except that Roic
wasn't back yet. The armsman would have to get in touch with Venn and Greenlaw and get
them to unseal and reseal his passage back up to -
Vorkosigan. Venn's voice sounded again in his ear, strained. Is that you?
Is what me?
Shutting off the compartments.
Isn't it, Miles tried, and failed, to swallow his voice back down to a more
reasonable pitch. Aren't you in Nav and Com yet?
No, we circled back to the Number Two nacelle to pick up our equipment. We were just
about to leave it.
Hope flared in Miles's hammering heart. Roic, he called urgently. Where are you?
Not in Nav and Com, m'lord, Roic's grim voice returned.
But if we're here and he's there, who's doing this? came Leutwyn's unhappy voice.
Who do you think? Greenlaw ripped back. Her breath huffed out in anguish. Five
people, and not one of us thought to see the door locked behind us when we left -
dammit!
A small, bleak grunt, like a man being hit with an arrow, or a realization, sounded
in Miles's ear: Roic.
Miles said urgently, Anyone who holds Nav and Com has access to all these ship-
linked com channels, or will, shortly. We're going to have to switch off.
The quaddies had independent links to the station and Vorpatril through their suits;
so did the medicos. Miles and Roic would be the ones plunged into communications limbo.
Then, abruptly, the sound in his helmet went dead. Ah. Looks like the ba has found
the com controls....
Miles leapt to the environmental control panel for the infirmary to the left of the
door, opened it, and hit every manual override in it. With this outer door shut, they
could retain air pressure, although circulation would be blocked. The medicos in their
suits would be unaffected; Miles and Bel would be at risk. He eyed the bod pod locker
on the wall without favor. The bio-sealed ward was already functioning on internal
circulation, thank God, and could remain so - as long as the power stayed on. But how
could they keep Bel cold if the herm had to retreat to a pod?
Miles hurried back into the ward. He approached Clogston, and yelled through his
faceplate, We just lost our ship-linked suit coms. Keep to your tight-beam military
channels only.
I heard, Clogston yelled back.
How are you coming on that filter-cooler?
Cooler part's done. Still working on the filter. I wish I'd brought more hands,
although there's scarcely room in here for more butts.
I've almost got it, I think, called the tech, crouched over the bench. Check that,
will you, sir? He waved in the direction of one of the analyzers, a collection of
lights on its readout now blinking for attention.
Clogston dodged around him and bent to the machine in question. After a moment he
murmured, Oh, that's clever.
Miles, crowding his shoulder close enough to hear this, did not find it reassuring.
What's clever?
Clogston pointed at his analyzer readout, which now displayed incomprehensible
strings of letters and numbers in cheery colors. I didn't see how the parasites could
possibly survive in a matrix of that enzyme that ate your biotainer gloves. But they
were microencapsulated.
What?
Standard trick for delivering drugs through a hostile environment - like your
stomach, or maybe your bloodstream - to the target zone. Only this time, used to
deliver a disease. When the microencapsulation passes out of the unfriendly environment
into the - chemically speaking - friendly zone, it pops open, releasing its load. No
loss, no waste.
Oh. Wonderful. Are you saying I now have the same shit Bel has?
Um. Clogston glanced up at a chrono on the wall. How long since you were first
exposed, my lord?
Miles followed his glance. Half an hour, maybe?
They might be detectable in your bloodstream by now.
Check it.
We'll have to open your suit to access a vein.
Check it now. Fast.
Clogston grabbed a sampler needle; Miles peeled back the biotainer wrap from his left
wrist, and gritted his teeth as a biocide swab stung and the needle poked. Clogston was
pretty deft for a man wearing biotainer gloves, Miles had to concede. He watched
anxiously as the surgeon delicately slipped the needle into the analyzer.
How long will this take?
Now that we have the template of the thing, no time at all. If it's positive, that
is. If this first sample shows negative, I'd want a recheck every thirty minutes or so
to be sure. Clogston's voice slowed, as he studied his readout. Well. Um. A recheck
won't be necessary.
Right, Miles snarled. He yanked open his helmet and pushed back his suit sleeve. He
bent to his secured wrist com and snapped, Vorpatril!
Yes! Vorpatril's voice came back instantly. Riding his com channels - he must be on
duty in either the Prince Xav's own Nav and Com, or maybe, by now, its tactics room.
Wait, what are you doing on this channel? I thought you had no access.
The situation has changed. Never mind that now. What's happening out there?
What's happening in there?
The medical team, Portmaster Thorne, and I are holed up in the infirmary. For the
moment, we're still in control of our environment. I believe Venn, Greenlaw, and
Leutwyn are trapped in the Number Two freight nacelle. Roic may be somewhere in
Engineering. And the ba, I believe, has seized Nav and Com. Can you confirm that last?
Oh, yes, groaned Vorpatril. It's talking to the quaddies on Graf Station right
now. Making threats and demands. Boss Watts seems to have inherited their hot seat. I
have a strike team scrambling.
Patch it in here. I have to hear this.
A few seconds delay, then the ba's voice sounded. The Betan accent was gone; the
academic coolness was fraying. - name does not matter. If you wish to get the Sealer,
the Imperial Auditor, and the others back alive, these are my requirements. A jump
pilot for this ship, delivered immediately. Free and unimpeded passage from your
system. If either you or the Barrayarans attempt to launch a military assault against
the Idris, I will either blow up the ship with all aboard, or ram the station.
Boss Watts's voice returned, thick with tension, If you attempt to ram Graf Station,
we'll blow you up ourselves.
Either way will do, the ba's voice returned dryly.
Did the ba know how to blow up a jumpship? It wasn't exactly easy. Hell, if the
Cetagandan was a hundred years old, who know what all it knew how to do? Ramming, now -
with a target that big and close, any layman could manage it.
Greenlaw's stiff voice cut in; her com link presumably was patched through to Watts
in the same way that Miles's was to Vorpatril. Don't do it, Watts. Quaddiespace cannot
let a plague-carrier like this pass through to our neighbors. A handful of lives can't
justify the risk to thousands.
Indeed, the ba continued after a slight hesitation, still in that same cool tone.
If you do succeed in killing me, I'm afraid you will win yourselves another dilemma. I
have left a small gift aboard the station. The experiences of Gupta and Portmaster
Thorne should give you an idea of what sort of package it is. You might find it before
it ruptures, although I'd say your odds are poor. Where are your thousands now? Much
closer to home.
True threat or bluff? Miles wondered frantically. It certainly fit the ba's style as
demonstrated so far - Bel in the bod pod, the booby trap with the suit-control
joysticks - hideous, lethal puzzles tossed out in the ba's wake to disrupt and distract
its pursuers. It sure worked on me, anyway.
Vorpatril cut in privately on the wrist com, in an unnecessarily lowered, tense tone,
overriding the exchange between the ba and Watts. Do you think the bastard's bluffing,
m'lord?
Doesn't matter if it's bluffing or not. I want it alive. Oh, God do I ever want it
alive. Take that as a top priority and an order in the Emperor's Voice, Admiral.
After a small and, Miles hoped, thoughtful pause, Vorpatril returned, Understood, my
Lord Auditor.
Ready your strike team, yes... Vorpatril's best strike force was locked in quaddie
detention. What was the second best one like? Miles's heart quailed. But hold it. This
situation is extremely unstable. I don't have any clear sense yet how it will play out.
Put the ba's channel back on. Miles returned his attention to the negotiation in
progress - no - winding up?
A jump pilot. The ba seemed to be reiterating. Alone, in a personnel pod, to the
Number Five B lock. And, ah - naked. Horribly, there seemed to be a smile in that last
word. For obvious reasons.
The ba cut the com.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Now what?
Delays, Miles guessed, while the quaddies on Graf Station either readied a pilot or
ran the risks of stalling about delivering one into such a hazard, and suppose none
volunteered? While Vorpatril marshaled his strike team, while the three quaddie
officials trapped in the freight nacelle - well, didn't sit on their hands, Miles bet -
while this infection gains on me, while the ba did - what?
Delay is not my friend.
But it was his gift. What time was it, anyway? Late evening - still the same day that
had started so early with the news of Bel's disappearance? Yes, though it hardly felt
possible. Surely he had entered some time warp. Miles stared at his wrist com, took a
deep, terrified breath, and called up Ekaterin's code. Had Vorpatril told her anything
of what was happening yet, or had he kept her comfortably ignorant?
Miles! she answered at once.
Ekaterin, love. Where, um... are you?
The tactics room, with Admiral Vorpatril.
Ah. That answered that question. In a way, he was relieved that he didn't have to
deliver the whole litany of bad news himself, cold. You've been following this, then.
More or less. It's been very confusing.
I'll bet. I... He couldn't say it, not so baldly. He dodged, while he mustered
courage. I promised to call Nicol when I had news of Bel, and I haven't had a chance.
The news, as you may know, is not good; we found Bel, but the herm has been
deliberately infected with a bioengineered Cetagandan parasite that may... may prove
lethal.
Yes, I understand. I've been hearing it all, here in the tactics room.
Good. The medics are doing their best, but it's a race against time and now there
are these other complications. Will you call Nicol and redeem my word for me? There's
not no hope, but... she needs to know it doesn't look so good right now. Use your
judgment how much to soften it.
My judgment is that she should be told plain truth. The whole of Graf Station is in
an uproar now, what with the quarantine and biocontamination alert. She needs to know
exactly what's going on, and she has a right to know. I'll call her at once.
Oh. Good. Thank you. I, um... you know I love you.
Yes. Tell me something I don't know.
Miles blinked. This wasn't getting easier; he rushed it in a breath. Well. There's a
chance I may have screwed up pretty badly, here. Like, I may not get out of this one.
The situation here is pretty unsettled, and, um... I'm afraid my biotainer suit gloves
were sabotaged by a nasty little Cetagandan booby trap I triggered. I seem to have got
myself infected with the same biohazard that's taken Bel down. The stuff doesn't appear
to act very quickly, though.
In the background, he could just hear Admiral Vorpatril's voice, cursing in choice
barracks language not at all consonant with the respect due to one of His Majesty
Gregor Vorbarra's Imperial Auditors. From Ekaterin, silence; he strained to hear her
breathing. The sound reproduction on these high-grade com links was so excellent, he
could hear when she let her breath out again, through those pursed, exquisite warm lips
he could not see or touch.
He began again. I'm... I'm sorry that... I wanted to give you - this wasn't what I -
I never wanted to bring you grief -
Miles. Stop that babbling at once.
Oh... uh, yes?
Her voice sharpened. If you die on me out here, I will not be grieved, I will be
pissed. This is all very fine, love, but may I point out that you don't have time to
indulge in angst right now. You're the man who used to rescue hostages for a living.
You are not allowed to not get out of this one. So stop worrying about me and start
paying attention to what you are doing. Are you listening to me, Miles Vorkosigan?
Don't you dare die! I won't have it!
That seemed definitive. Despite everything, he grinned. Yes, dear, he sang back
meekly, heartened. This woman's Vor ancestoresses had defended bastions in war, oh,
yes.
So stop talking to me and get back to work. Right?
She almost kept the shaken sob out of that last word.
Hold the fort, love, he breathed, with all the tenderness he knew.
Always. He could hear her swallow. Always.
She cut her link. He took it as a hint.
Hostage rescue, eh? If you want something done right, do it yourself. Come to think
of it, did this ba have any idea of what Miles's former line of work had been? Or did
it assume Miles was just a diplomat, a bureaucrat, another frightened civilian? The ba
could not know which of the party had triggered its booby trap on the repair suit
remote controls, either. Not that this biotainer suit hadn't been useless for space
assault purposes even before it had been buggered all to hell. But what tools were
available here in this infirmary that might be put to uses their manufacturers had
never envisioned? And what personnel?
The medical crew had military training, right enough, and discipline. They also were
up to their collective elbows in other tasks of the highest priority. Miles's very last
desire was to pull them away from their cramped, busy lab bench and critical patient
care to go play commando with him. Although it may come to that. Thoughtfully, he began
walking about the infirmary's outer chamber, opening drawers and cupboards and staring
at their contents. A muddy fatigue was beginning to drag at his edgy, adrenaline-pumped
high, and a headache was starting behind his eyes. He studiously ignored the terror of
it.
He glanced through the blue light bars into the ward. The tech hurried from the
bench, heading toward the bathroom with something in his hands that trailed looping
tubes.
Captain Clogston! Miles called.
The second suited figure turned. Yes, my lord?
I'm shutting your inner door. It's supposed to close on its own in the event of a
pressure change, but I'm not sure I trust any remote-controlled equipment on this ship
at the moment. Are you prepared to move your patient into a bod pod, if necessary?
Clogston gave him a sketchy salute of acknowledgment with a gloved hand. Almost, my
lord. We're starting construction on the second blood filter. If the first one works as
well as I hope, we should be ready to rig you up very soon, too.
Which would tie him down to a bunk in the ward. He wasn't ready to lose mobility yet.
Not while he could still move and think on his own. You don't have much time then.
Regardless of what the ba does. Thank you, Captain, Miles called. Let me know. He
slid the door shut with the manual override.
What could the ba know, from Nav and Com? More importantly, what were its blind
spots? Miles paced, considering the layout of this central nacelle: a long cylinder
divided into three decks. This infirmary lay at the stern on the uppermost deck. Nav
and Com was far forward, at the other end of the middle deck. The internal airseal
doors of all levels lay at the three evenly spaced intersections to the freight and
drive nacelles, dividing each deck longitudinally into quarters.
Nav and Com had security vid monitors in all the outer airlocks, of course, and
safety monitors on all the inner section doors that closed to seal the ship into
airtight compartments. Blowing out a monitor would blind the ba, but also give warning
that the supposed prisoners were on the move. Blowing out all of them, or all that
could be reached, would be more confusing... but still left the problem of giving
warning. How likely was the ba to carry out its harried, or perhaps insane, threat of
ramming the station?
Dammit, this was so unprofessional... Miles halted, arrested by his own thought.
What were the standard operating procedures for a Cetagandan agent - anyone's agent,
really - whose covert mission was going down the toilet? Destroy all the evidence: try
to make it to a safe zone, embassy, or neutral territory. If that wasn't possible,
destroy the evidence and then sit tight and endure arrest by the locals, whoever the
locals might be, and wait for one's own side to either bail or bust one out, depending.
For the really, really critical missions, destroy the evidence and commit suicide. This
last was seldom ordered, because it was even more seldom carried out. But the
Cetagandan ba were so conditioned to loyalty to their haut masters - and mistresses -
Miles was forced to consider it a more realistic possibility in the present case.
But splashy hostage-taking among neutrals or neighbors, blaring the mission all over
the news, most of all - most of all, the public use of the Star Creche's most private
arsenal... This wasn't the modus operandi of a trained agent. This was goddamned
amateur work. And Miles's superiors used to accuse him of being a loose cannon - hah!
Not any of his most direly inspired messes had ever been as forlorn as this one was
shaping up to be - for both sides, alas. This gratifying deduction did not,
unfortunately, make the ba's next action more predictable. Quite the reverse.
M'lord? Roic's voice rose unexpectedly from Miles's wrist com.
Roic! cried Miles joyfully. Wait. What the hell are you doing on this link? You
shouldn't be out of your suit.
I might ask you the same question, m'lord, Roic returned rather tartly. If I had
time. But I had to get out of t' pressure suit anyway to get into this work suit. I
think... yes. I can hang the com link in my helmet. There. A slight chink, as of a
faceplate closing. Can you still hear me?
Oh, yes. I take it you're still in Engineering?
For now. I found you a real nice little pressure suit, m'lord. And a lot of other
tools. Question is how to get it to you.
Stay away from all the airseal doors - they're monitored. Have you found any cutting
tools, by chance?
I'm, uh... pretty sure that's what these are, yes.
Then move as far to the stern as you can get, and cut straight up through the
ceiling to the middle deck. Try to avoid damaging the air ducts and grav grid and
control and fluid conduits, for now. Or anything else that would make the boards light
up in Nav and Com. Then we can place you for the next cut.
Right, m'lord. I was thinking something like that might do.
A few minutes ran by, with nothing but the sound of Roic's breathing, broken with a
few under-voiced obscenities as, by trial and error, he discovered how to handle the
unfamiliar equipment. A grunt, a hiss, a clank abruptly cut off.
The rough-and-ready procedure was going to play hell with the atmospheric integrity
of the sections, but did that necessarily make things any worse, from the hostages'
point of view? And a pressure suit, oh bliss! Miles wondered if any of the powered work
suits had been sized extra-small. Almost as good as space armor, indeed.
All right, m'lord, came the welcome voice from his wrist com. I've made it to the
middle deck. I'm moving back now... I'm not exactly sure how close I am under you.
Can you reach up to tap on the ceiling? Gently. We don't want it to reverberate
through the bulkheads all the way to Nav and Com. Miles threw himself prone, opened
his faceplate, tilted his head, and listened. A faint banging, apparently from out in
the corridor. Can you move farther toward the stern?
I'll try, m'lord. It's a question of getting these ceiling panels apart... More
heavy breathing. There. Try now.
This time, the rapping seemed to come from nearly under Miles's outstretched hand. I
think that's got it, Roic.
Right, m'lord. Be sure you're not standing where I'm cutting. I think Lady
Vorkosigan would be right peeved with me if I accidentally lopped off any of your body
parts.
I think so too. Miles rose, ripped up a section of friction matting, skittered to
the side of the infirmary's outer chamber, and held his breath.
A red glow in the bare deck plate beneath turned yellow, then white. The dot became a
line, which grew, wavering in an irregular circle back to its beginning. A thump, as
Roic's gloved paw, powered by his suit, punched up through the floor, tearing the
weakened circle from its matrix.
Miles nipped over and stared down, and grinned at Roic's face staring up in worry
through the faceplate of another repair suit. The hole was too small for that hulking
figure to squeeze through, but not too small for the pressure suit he handed up through
it.
Good job, Miles called down. Hang on. I'll be right with you.
M'lord?
Miles tore off the useless biotainer suit and crammed himself into the pressure suit
in record time. Inevitably, the plumbing was female, and he left it unattached. One way
or another, he didn't think he would be suited up for very long. He was flushed and
sweating, one moment too hot, the next too cold, though whether from incipient
infection or just plain overdriven nerves he scarcely knew.
The helmet supplied no place to hang his wrist com, but a bit of medical tape solved
that problem in a moment. He lowered the helmet over his head and locked it into place,
breathing deeply of air that no one controlled but him. Reluctantly, he set the suit's
temperature to chilly.
Then he slid to the hole and dangled his legs through. Catch me. Don't squeeze too
hard - remember, you're powered.
Right, m'lord.
Lord Auditor Vorkosigan, came Vorpatril's uneasy voice. What are you doing?
Reconnoitering.
Roic caught his hips, lowering him with exaggerated gentleness to the middle deck.
Miles glanced up the corridor, past the larger hole in its floor, to the airseal doors
at the far end of this sector. Solian's security office is in this section. If there's
any control board on this bloody ship that can monitor without being monitored in turn,
it'll be in there.
He tiptoed down the corridor, Roic lumbering in his wake. The deck creaked beneath
the armsman's booted feet. Miles tapped out the now-familiar code to the office door;
Roic barely squeezed through behind him. Miles slid into the late Lieutenant Solian's
station chair and flexed his fingers, contemplating the console. He drew a breath and
bent forward.
Yes, he could siphon off views from the vid monitors of every airlock on the ship -
simultaneously, if desired. Yes, he could tap into the safety sensors on the airseal
doors. They were designed to take in a good view of anyone near - as in, frantically
pounding on - the doors. Nervously, he checked the one for this middle rear section.
The vista, if the ba was even looking at it with so much else going on, did not extend
as far as Solian's office door. Whew. Could he bring up a view of Nav and Com, perhaps,
and spy secretly upon its current occupant?
Roic said apprehensively, What are you thinking of doing, m'lord?
I'm thinking that a surprise attack that has to stop to bore through six or seven
bulkheads to get to the target isn't going to be surprising enough. Though we may come
to that. I'm running out of time. He blinked, hard, then thought to hell with it and
opened his faceplate to rub his eyes. The vid image unblurred in his vision, but still
seemed to waver around the edges. Miles didn't think the problem was in the vid plate.
His headache, which had started as a stabbing pain between his eyes, seemed to be
spreading to his temples, which throbbed. He was shivering. He sighed and closed the
faceplate again.
That bio-shit - the admiral said you got t' same bio-shit the herm has. The crap
that melted Gupta's friends.
When did you talk to Vorpatril?
Just before I talked to you.
Ah.
Roic said lowly, I should've been t' one to run those remote controls. Not you.
It had to be me. I was more familiar with the equipment.
Yes. Roic's voice went lower. You should've brought Jankowski, m'lord.
Just a guess - based on long experience, mind you... Miles paused, frowning at the
security display. All right, so Solian didn't have a monitor in every cabin, but he had
to have private access to Nav and Com if he had anything... But I suspect there will
be enough heroism before this day is done to go around. I don't think we're going to
have to ration it, Roic.
'S not what I meant, said Roic, in a dignified tone.
Miles grinned blackly. I know. But think of how hard it would have been on Ma
Jankowski. And all the not-so-little Jankowskis.
A soft snort from the com link taped inside Miles's helmet apprised him that Ekaterin
was back, listening in. She would not interrupt, he suspected.
Vorpatril's voice sounded suddenly, breaking his concentration. The admiral was
sputtering. The spineless scoundrels! The four-armed bastards! My Lord Auditor! Ah,
Miles was promoted again. The goddamn little mutants are giving this sexless
Cetagandan plague-vector a jump pilot!
What? Miles's stomach knotted. Tighter. They found a volunteer? Quaddie, or
downsider? There couldn't be that large a pool of possibilities to choose from. The
pilots' surgically installed neuro-controllers had to fit the ships they guided through
the wormhole jumps. However many jump pilots were currently quartered - or trapped - on
Graf Station, chances were that most would be incompatible with the Barrayaran systems.
So was it the Idris's own pilot or relief pilot, or a pilot from one of the Komarran
sister ships... ?
What makes you think he's a volunteer? snarled Vorpatril. I can't bloody believe
they're just handing...
Maybe the quaddies are up to something. What do they say?
Vorpatril hesitated, then spat, Watts cut me out of the loop a few minutes ago. We
were having an argument over whose strike team should go in, ours or the quaddie
militia's, and when. And under whose orders. Both at once with no coordination struck
me as a supremely bad idea.
Indeed. One perceives the potential hazards. The ba was beginning to seem a trifle
outnumbered. But then there were its bio-threats... Miles's nascent sympathy died as
his vision blurred again. We are guests in their polity... hang on. Something seems to
be happening at one of the outer airlocks.
Miles enlarged the security vid image from the lock that had suddenly come alive.
Docking lights framing the outer door ran through a series of checks and go-aheads. The
ba, he reminded himself, was probably looking at this same view. He held his breath.
Were the quaddies, under the mask of delivering the demanded jump pilot, about to
attempt to insert their own strike force?
The airlock door slid open, giving a brief glimpse of the inside of a tiny, one-
person personnel pod. A naked man, the little silver contact circles of a jump pilot's
neural implant gleaming at mid-forehead and temples, stepped through into the lock. The
door slid shut again. Tall, dark-haired, handsome but for the thin pink scars running,
Miles could now see, all over his body in a winding swathe. Dmitri Corbeau. His face
was pale and set.
The jump pilot has just arrived, Miles told Vorpatril.
Dammit. Human or quaddie?
Vorpatril was really going to have to work on his diplomatic vocabulary....
Downsider, Miles answered, in lieu of any more pointed remark. He hesitated, then
added, It's Lieutenant Corbeau.
A stunned silence: then Vorpatril hissed, Son-of-a-bitch... !
H'sh. The ba is finally coming on. Miles adjusted the volume, and opened his
faceplate again so that Vorpatril could overhear too. As long as Roic kept his suit
sealed, it was... no worse than ever. Yeah, and how bad is that, again?
Turn toward the security module and open your mouth, the ba's voice instructed
coolly and without preamble over the lock vid monitor. Closer. Wider. Miles was
treated to a fair view of Corbeau's tonsils. Unless Corbeau harbored a poison-filled
tooth, no weapons were concealed therein.
Very well... The ba continued with a chill series of directions for Corbeau to go
through a humiliating sequence of gyrations which, while not as thorough as a body
cavity search, gave at least some assurance that the jump pilot carried nothing there,
either. Corbeau obeyed precisely, without hesitation or argument, his expression rigid
and blank.
Now release the pod from the docking clamps.
Corbeau rose from his last squat and stepped through the lock to the personnel hatch
entry area. A chink and a clank - the pod, released but unpowered, drifted away from
the side of the Idris.
Now listen to these instructions. You will walk twenty meters toward the bow, turn
left, and wait for the next door to open for you.
Corbeau obeyed, still almost expressionless, except for his eyes. His gaze darted
about, as if he searched for something, or was trying to memorize his route. He passed
out of sight of the lock vids.
Miles considered the peculiar pattern of old worm scars across Corbeau's body. He
must have rolled, or been rolled, across a bad nest. A story seemed written in those
fading hieroglyphs. A young colonial boy, perhaps the new boy in camp or town - tricked
or dared or maybe just stripped and pushed? To rise again from the ground, crying and
frightened, to the jangle of some cruel mockery...
Vorpatril swore, repetitively, under his breath. Why Corbeau? Why Corbeau?
Miles, who was frantically wondering the same thing, hazarded, Perhaps he
volunteered.
Unless the bloody quaddies bloody sacrificed him. Instead of risking one of their
own. Or... maybe he's figured out another way to desert.
I... Miles held his words for a long moment of thought, then let them out on a
breath, think that would be doing it the hard way. It was a sticky suspicion, though.
Just whose ally might Corbeau prove?
Miles caught Corbeau's image again as the ba walked him through the ship toward Nav
and Com, briefly opening and closing airseal doors. He passed through the last barrier
and out of vid range, straight-backed, silent, bare feet padding quietly on the deck.
He looked... cold.
Miles's attention was jerked aside by the flicker of another airlock sensor alarm.
Hastily, he called up the image of another lock - just in time to see a quaddie in a
green biotainer suit whap the vid monitor mightily with a spanner while beyond, two
more green figures sped past. The image shattered and went dark. He could still hear,
though - the beep of the lock alarm, the hiss of a lock door opening - but no hiss when
it closed. Because it did not close, or because it closed on vacuum? Air, and sound,
returned as the lock cycled. The lock, therefore, had opened on vacuum; the quaddies
had made their getaway into space around the station.
That answered his question about their biotainer suits - unlike the Idris's cheaper
issue, they were vacuum-rated. In Quaddiespace, that made all kinds of sense. Half a
dozen station locks offered refuge within little more than a few hundred meters; the
fleeing quaddies would have their pick, in addition to whatever pods or shuttles
hovered nearby able to swoop down on them and take them inboard.
Venn and Greenlaw and Leutwyn just escaped out an airlock, he reported to
Vorpatril. Good timing. Shrewd timing, to go just when the ba was both distracted by
the arrival of its pilot and, with the real possibility of a getaway now in hand, less
inclined to carry out the station-ramming threat. It was exactly the right move, to
leak hostages from the enemy's grip at every opportunity. Granted, this use of
Corbeau's arrival was ruthlessly calculated in the extreme. Miles could not be sorry.
Good. Excellent! Now this ship is entirely cleared of civilians.
Except for you, m'lord, Roic pointed out, started to say something else,
intercepted the dark look Miles cast over his shoulder, and ran down in a mumble.
Ha, muttered Vorpatril. Maybe this will change Watts's mind. His voice lowered,
as if directed away from his audio pickup, or behind his hand. What, Lieutenant? Then
murmured, Excuse me, Miles was not certain to whom.
So, only Barrayarans left aboard now. Plus Bel - on the ImpSec payroll, therefore an
honorary Barrayaran for all mortal accounting purposes. Miles smiled briefly despite it
all as he considered Bel's probable outraged response to such a suggestion. The best
time to insert a strike force would be before the ship started to move, rather than to
attempt to play catch-up in mid-space. At some point, Vorpatril was probably going to
stop waiting for quaddie permission to launch his men. At some point, Miles would
agree.
Miles returned his attention to the problem of spying on Nav and Com. If the ba had
knocked out the monitor the way the passing quaddies just had, or even merely thrown a
jacket over the vid pickup, Miles would be out of luck... ah. Finally. An image of Nav
and Com formed over his vid plate. But now he had no sound. Miles gritted his teeth and
bent forward.
The vid pickup was apparently centered over the door, giving a good view over the
half dozen empty station chairs and their dark consoles. The ba was there, still
dressed in the Betan garb of its discarded alias, jacket and sarong and sandals.
Although a pressure suit - one - abstracted from the Idris's supplies lay nearby, flung
over the back of a station chair. Corbeau, still vulnerably naked, was seated in the
pilot's chair, but had not yet lowered his headset. The ba held up a hand, said
something; Corbeau frowned fiercely, and flinched, as the ba pressed a hypospray
briefly against the pilot's upper arm and stepped back with a flash of satisfaction on
its strained face.
Drugs? Surely even the ba was not mad enough to drug a jump pilot upon whose neural
function it would shortly be betting its life. Some disease inoculation? The same
problem applied, although something latent might do - Cooperate, and later I will let
you have the antidote. Or pure bluff, a shot of water, perhaps. The hypospray seemed
altogether too crude and obvious as a Cetagandan drug administration method; it hinted
at bluff to Miles's mind, though perhaps not to Corbeau's. One had no choice but to
turn control over to the pilot when he lowered his headset and plugged the ship into
his mind. It made pilots hard to effectively threaten.
It did rather put paid to Vorpatril's paranoid fear that Corbeau had turned traitor,
volunteering for this as a way to get a free ride out of his quaddie detention cell and
his dilemmas. Or did it? Regardless of prior or secret agreements, the ba would not
simply trust when it could, it would think, guarantee.
Over his wrist com, muffled as from a distance, Miles heard a sudden, startling
bellow from Admiral Vorpatril: What? That's impossible. Have they gone mad? Not
now...
After a few more moments passed without further enlightenment, he murmured, Um,
Ekaterin? Are you still there?
Her breath drew in. Yes.
What's going on?
Admiral Vorpatril was called away by his communications officer. Some sort of
priority message from Sector Five headquarters just arrived. It seems to be something
very urgent.
On the vid image in front of him, Miles watched as Corbeau began to run through
preflight checks, moving from station to station under the hard, watchful eyes of the
ba. Corbeau made sure to move with disproportional care; apparently, from the movement
of his rather stiff lips, explaining each move before he touched a console. And slowly,
Miles noted. Rather more slowly than necessary, if not quite slowly enough to be
obvious about it.
Vorpatril's voice, or rather, Vorpatril's heavy breathing, returned at last. The
admiral appeared to have run out of invective. Miles found that considerably more
disturbing than his previous naval bellowing.
My lord. Vorpatril hesitated. His voice dropped to a sort of stunned growl. I have
just received Priority One orders from Sector Five HQ to marshal my escort ships,
abandon the Komarran fleet, and head for fleet rendezvous off Marilac at maximum
possible speed.
Not with my wife, you don't, was Miles's first gyrating thought.
Then he blinked, freezing in his seat.
The other function of the military escorts Barrayar donated to the Komarran trade
fleets was to quietly and unobtrusively maintain an armed force dispersed through the
Nexus. A force that could, in the event of a truly dire emergency, be collected rapidly
so as to present a convincing military threat at key strategic points. In a crunch it
might otherwise be too slow, or even diplomatically or militarily impossible, to get
any force from the homeworlds through the wormhole jumps of intervening local space
polities to the mustering places where it could do Barrayar some good. But the trade
fleets were out there already.
The planet of Marilac was a Barrayaran ally at the back door of the Cetagandan
Empire, from Barrayar's point of view, in the complex web of wormhole jump routes that
strung the Nexus together. A second front, as Rho Ceta's immediate neighborly threat to
Komarr was considered the first front. Granted, the Cetagandans had the shorter lines
of communication and logistics between the two points of contact. But the strategic
pincer still beat hell out of the sound of one hand clapping, particularly with the
potential addition of Marilacan forces. The Barrayarans would only be marshaling at
Marilac in order to offer a threat to Cetaganda.
Except that, when Miles and Ekaterin had left Barrayar on this belated honeymoon
trip, relations between the two empires had been about as - well, cordial was perhaps
not quite the right term - about as unstrained as they had been in years. What the hell
could have changed that, so profoundly, and so quickly?
Something has stirred up the Cetagandans around Rho Ceta, Gregor had said.
A few jumps out from Rho Ceta, Guppy and his smuggler friends had off-loaded a
strange live cargo from a Cetagandan government ship, one with lots of fancy markings.
A screaming-bird pattern, perhaps? Along with one, and only one person - one survivor?
After which the ship had tilted away, on a dangerous in-bound course for the system's
suns. What if that trajectory hadn't been a swing around? What if it had been a
straight dive, with no return?
Sonuvabitch, breathed Miles.
My lord? said Vorpatril. If -
Quiet, snapped Miles.
The admiral's silence was shocked, but it held.
Once a year, the most precious cargoes of the haut race left the Star Creche on the
capital world of Eta Ceta. Eight ships, bound each for one of the planets of the Empire
so curiously ruled by the haut. Each carrying that year's cohort of haut embryos,
genetically modified and certified results of all the contracts of conception so
carefully negotiated, the prior year, between the members of the great constellations,
the clans, the carefully cultivated gene-lines of the haut race. Each load of a
thousand or so nascent lives conducted by one of the eight most important haut ladies
of the Empire, the planetary consorts who were the steering committee of the Star
Creche. All most private, most secret, most never-to-be-discussed with outsiders.
How was it that a ba agent could not go back for more copies, if it lost such a cargo
of future haut lives in transit?
When it wasn't an agent at all. When it was a renegade.
The crime isn't murder, Miles whispered, his eyes widening. The crime is
kidnapping.
The murders had come subsequently, in an increasingly panicked cascade, as the ba,
with good reason, attempted to bury its trail. Well, Guppy and his friends had surely
been planned to die, as eyewitnesses to the fact that one person had not gone down with
the rest on the doomed ship. A ship hijacked, if briefly, before its destruction - all
the best hijackings were inside jobs, oh, yes. The Cetagandan government must be going
insane over this.
My lord, are you all right - ?
Ekaterin's voice, in a fierce whisper: No, don't interrupt him. He's thinking. He
just makes those funny leaking noises when he's thinking.
From the Celestial Garden's point of view, a Star Creche child-ship had disappeared
on what should have been a safe route to Rho Ceta. Every rescue force and intelligence
agent the Cetagandan empire owned would have been flung into the case. If it were not
for Guppy, the tragedy might have passed as some mysterious malfunction that had sent
the ship tumbling, out of control and unable to signal, to its fiery doom. No
survivors, no wreckage, no loose ends. But there was Guppy. Leaving a messy trail of
wildly suggestive evidence behind him with every flopping footfall.
How far behind could the Cetagandans be, by now? Too close for the ba's comfort,
obviously; it was a wonder, when Guppy had popped up on the hostel railing, that the ba
hadn't just died of heart failure without any need for the rivet gun. But the ba's
trail, marked by Guppy with blazing flares, led straight through from the scene of the
crime to the heart of a sometimes-enemy empire - Barrayar. What were the Cetagandans
making of it all?
Well, we have a clue now, don't we?
Right, breathed Miles, then, more crisply, Right. You're recording all this, I
trust. So my first order in the Emperor's Voice, Admiral, is to countermand your
rendezvous orders from Sector Five. That was what you were about to ask for, yes?
Thank you, my Lord Auditor, yes, said Vorpatril gratefully. Normally, that would
be a call I would rather die than disregard, but... given our present situation, they
are going to have to wait a little. Vorpatril wasn't self-dramatizing; this was
delivered as a plain statement of fact. Not too long, I hope.
They are going to have to wait a lot. This is my next order in the Emperor's Voice.
Clear copy everything - everything - you have on record here from the past twenty-four
hours and squirt it back on an open channel, at the highest priority, to the Imperial
Residence, to the Barrayaran high command on Barrayar, to ImpSec HQ, and to ImpSec
Galactic Affairs on Komarr. And, he took a breath, and raised his voice to override
Vorpatril's outraged cry of Clear copy! At a time like this? marked from Lord Auditor
Miles Vorkosigan of Barrayar to the most urgent, personal attention of ghem-General Dag
Benin, Chief of Imperial Security, the Celestial Garden, Eta Ceta, personal, urgent,
most urgent, by Rian's hair this one's real, Dag. Exactly those words.
What? screamed Vorpatril, then hastily lowered his tone to an anguished repeat,
What? A rendezvous at Marilac can only mean imminent war with the Cetagandans! We
can't hand them that kind of intelligence on our position and movements - gift-
wrapped!
Obtain the complete, unedited Graf Station Security recording of the interrogation
of Russo Gupta and send it along too, as soon as you possibly can. Sooner.
New terror shook Miles, a vision like a fever dream: the grand facade of Vorkosigan
House, in the Barrayaran capital of Vorbarr Sultana, with plasma fire raining down upon
it, its ancient stone melting like butter; two fluid-filled canisters exploding in
steam. Or a fog of plague, leaving all the House's protectors dead in heaps in the
halls, or fled to die in the streets; two almost ripe replicators running down
unattended, stopping, slowly chilling, their tiny occupants dying for lack of oxygen,
drowning in their own amniotic fluid. His past and his future, all destroyed
together... Nikki, too - would he be swept up with the other children in some frantic
rescue, or left uncounted, unmissed, fatally alone? Miles had fancied himself growing
into a good stepfather to Nikki - that was called into deep question now, eh? Ekaterin,
I'm sorry...
It would be hours - days - before the new tight-beam could get back to Barrayar and
Cetaganda. Insanely upset people could make fatal mistakes in mere minutes. Seconds...
And if you are a praying man, Vorpatril, pray that no one will do anything stupid
before it gets there. And that we will be believed.
Lady Vorkosigan, Vorpatril whispered urgently. Could he be hallucinating from the
disease?
No, no, she soothed. He's just thinking too fast, and leaving out all the
intervening steps. He does that. It can be very frustrating. Miles, love, um... for the
rest of us, would you mind unpacking that a little more?
He took a breath - and two or three more - to stop his trembling. The ba. It's not
an agent on a mission. It's a criminal. A renegade. Perhaps insane. I believe it
hijacked the annual haut child-ship to Rho Ceta, sent the vessel into the nearest sun
with all aboard - probably murdered already - and made off with its cargo. Which trans-
shipped through Komarr, and which left the Barrayaran Empire on a trade ship belonging
to Empress Laisa personally - and just how incriminating that particular detail is
going to look to certain minds inside the Star Creche, I shrink to imagine. The
Cetagandans think we stole their babies, or colluded in the theft, and, dear God,
murdered a planetary consort, and so they are about to make war on us by mistake!
Oh, said Vorpatril blankly.
The ba's whole safety lay in perfect secrecy, because once the Cetagandans got on
the right trail they would never rest till they tracked this crime down. But the
perfect plan cracked when Gupta didn't die on schedule. Gupta's frantic antics drew
Solian in, drew you in, drew me in... His voice slowed. Except, what in the world
does the ba want those haut infants for?
Ekaterin offered hesitantly, Could it be stealing them for someone else?
Yes, but the ba aren't supposed to be subornable.
Well, if not for pay or some bribe, maybe blackmail or threat? Maybe threat to some
haut to whom the ba is loyal?
Or maybe some faction in the Star Creche, Miles supplied. Except... the ghem-lords
do factions. The haut lords do factions. The Star Creche has always moved as one - even
when it was committing arguable treason, a decade ago, the haut ladies took no separate
decisions.
The Star Creche committed treason? echoed Vorpatril in astonishment. This
certainly didn't get out! Are you sure? I never heard of any mass executions that high
in the Empire back then, and I should have. He paused, and added in a baffled tone,
How could a bunch of haut-lady baby-makers commit treason, anyway?
It didn't quite come off. For various reasons. Miles cleared his throat.
Lord Auditor Vorkosigan. This is your com link, yes? Are you there? a new voice,
and a very welcome one, broke in.
Sealer Greenlaw! Miles cried happily. Have you made it to safety? All of you?
We are back aboard Graf Station, replied the Sealer. It seems premature to call it
safety. And you?
Still trapped aboard the Idris. Although not totally without resources. Or ideas.
I urgently need to speak to you. You can override that hothead Vorpatril.
Ah, my com link is sustaining an open audio link with Admiral Vorpatril now, ma'am.
You can speak to both of us at once, if you like, Miles put in hastily, before she
could express herself even more freely.
She hesitated only fractionally. Good. We absolutely need Vorpatril to hold, repeat,
hold any strike force of his. Corbeau confirms the ba does have some sort of a remote
control or deadman switch on his person, apparently linked back to the biohazard it has
hidden aboard Graf Station. The ba is not bluffing.
Miles glanced up in surprise at his silent vid of Nav and Com. Corbeau was seated now
in the pilot's station chair, the control headset lowered over his skull, his
expressionless face even more absent. Corbeau confirms! How? He was stark naked - the
ba is watching him every second! Subcutaneous com link?
There was no time to find and insert one. He undertook to blink the ship's running
lights in a prearranged code.
Whose idea was that?
His.
Quick colonial boy. The pilot was on their side. Oh, but that was good to know....
Miles's shivering was turning to shudders.
Every adult quaddie on Graf Station not on emergency duty is out looking for the
bio-bomb now, Greenlaw continued, but we have no idea what it looks like, or how big
it is, or if it is disguised as something else. Or if there is more than one. We are
trying to evacuate as many children as possible into what ships and shuttles we have on
hand, and seal them off, but we can't even be sure of them, really. If you people do
anything to set this mad creature off - if you launch an unauthorized strike force
before this vicious threat is found and safely neutralized - I swear I will give our
militia the order to shoot them out of space myself. Do you copy, Admiral? Confirm.
I hear you, said Vorpatril reluctantly. But ma'am - the Imperial Auditor himself
has been infected with one of the ba's lethal bio-agents. I cannot - I will not - if I
have to sit here and do nothing while listening to him die -
There are fifty thousand innocent lives on Graf Station, Admiral - Lord Auditor!
Her voice failed for a second; returned stiffly. I am sorry, Lord Vorkosigan.
I'm not dead yet, Miles replied rather primly. A new and most unwelcome sensation
struggled with the tight fear grinding in his belly. He added, I'm going to switch off
my com link for just a moment. I'll be right back.
Motioning Roic to keep still, Miles opened the door to the security office, stepped
into the corridor, opened his faceplate, leaned over, and vomited onto the floor. No
help for it. With an angry swipe, he turned his suit temperature back up. He blinked
back the green dizziness, wiped his mouth, went back inside, seated himself again, and
called his link back on. Continue.
He let Vorpatril's and Greenlaw's arguing voices fade from his attention, and studied
his view of Nav and Com more closely. One object had to be there, somewhere... ah.
There it was, a small, valise-sized cryo-freezer case, set carefully down next to one
of the empty station chairs near the door. A standard commercial model, no doubt bought
off the shelf from some medical supplier here on Graf Station sometime in the past few
days. All of this, this entire diplomatic mess, this extravagant trail of deaths
winding across half the Nexus, two empires teetering on the verge of war, came down to
that. Miles was reminded of the old Barrayaran folktale, about the evil mutant magician
who kept his heart in a box to hide it from his enemies.
Yes...
Greenlaw, Miles broke in. Do you have any way to signal back to Corbeau?
We designated one of the navigation buoys that broadcasts to the channels of the
pilots on cyber-neuro control. We can't get voice communication through it - Corbeau
wasn't sure how it would emerge, in his perceptions. We are certain we can get some
kind of simple code blink or beep through it.
I have a simple message for him. Urgent. Get it through if you possibly can, however
you can. Tell him to open all the inner airseal doors in the middle deck of the central
nacelle. Kill the security vids there, too, if he can.
Why? she asked suspiciously.
We have personnel trapped there who are going to die shortly if he doesn't, Miles
replied glibly. Well, it was true.
Right, she rapped back. I'll see what we can do.
He cut his outgoing voice link, turned in his station chair, and made a throat-
cutting motion for Roic to do the same. He leaned forward. Can you hear me?
Yes, m'lord. Roic's voice was muffled, through the work suit's thicker faceplate,
but sufficiently audible; they neither of them had to shout, in this quiet, little
space.
Greenlaw will never order or permit a strike force to be launched to try to capture
the ba. Not hers, not ours. She can't. There are too many quaddie lives up for grabs.
Trouble is, I don't think this placating approach will make her station any safer. If
this ba really murdered a planetary consort, it'll not even blink at a few thousand
quaddies. It'll promise cooperation right up to the last, then hit the release switch
on its bio-bomb and jump, just for the off chance that the chaos in its wake will delay
or disrupt pursuit an extra day or three. Are you with me so far?
Yes, m'lord. Roic's eyes were wide.
If we can get as close as the door to Nav and Com unseen, I think we have a chance
of jumping the ba ourselves. Specifically, you will jump the ba; I will supply a
distraction. You'll be all right. Stunner and nerve disruptor fire will pretty much
bounce off that work suit. Needler spines wouldn't penetrate immediately either, if it
comes to that. And it would take longer than the seconds you'll need to cross that
little room for plasma arc fire to burn through it.
Roic's lips twisted. What if he just fires at you? That pressure suit's not that
good.
The ba won't fire at me. That, I promise you. The Cetagandan haut, and their
siblings the ba, are physically stronger than anyone but the dedicated heavy-worlders,
but they're not stronger than a power suit. Go for his hands. Hold them. If we get that
far, well, the rest will follow.
And Corbeau? The poor bastard's starkers. Nothing's gonna stop anything fired at
him.
Corbeau, said Miles, will be the ba's last choice of targets. Ah! His eyes
widened, and he whirled about in his station chair. At the edge of the vid image, half
a dozen tiny images in the array were quietly going dark. Get to the corridor. Get
ready to run. As silently as you can.
From his com link, Vorpatril's volume-reduced voice pleaded heartrendingly for the
Imperial Auditor to please reopen his outgoing voice contact. He urged Lady Vorkosigan
to request the same.
Leave him alone, Ekaterin said firmly. He knows what he's doing.
What is he doing? Vorpatril wailed.
Something. Her voice fell to a whisper. Or perhaps it was a prayer. Good luck,
love.
Another voice, somewhat offsides, broke in: Captain Clogston. Admiral? Can you reach
Lord Auditor Vorkosigan? We've finished preparing his blood filter and are ready to try
it, but he's disappeared out of the infirmary. He was right here a few minutes ago...
Do you hear that, Lord Vorkosigan? Vorpatril tried somewhat desperately. You are
to report to the infirmary. Now.
In ten minutes - five - the medics could have their way with him. Miles pushed up
from his station chair - he had to use both hands - and followed Roic into the corridor
outside Solian's office.
Up ahead in the dimness, the first airseal door across the corridor hissed quietly
aside, revealing the cross-corridor to the other nacelles beyond. On the far side, the
next door began to slide.
Roic started trotting. His steps were unavoidably heavy. Miles half-jogged behind. He
tried to think how recently he had used his seizure-stimulator, how much at risk he was
right now for falling down in a fit from a combination of bad brain chemistry and
terror. Middling risky, he decided. No automatic weapons for him this trip anyway. No
weapons at all, but for his wits. They seemed a meager arsenal, just at the moment.
The second pair of doors opened for them. Then the third. Miles prayed they were not
walking into another clever trap. But he didn't think the ba would have any way of
tapping, or even guessing, this oblique line of communication. Roic paused briefly,
stepping behind the last door edge, and peered ahead. The door to Nav and Com was shut.
He gave a short nod and continued forward, Miles in his shadow. As they drew closer,
Miles could see that the control panel to the left of the door had been burned out by
some cutting tool, cousin, no doubt, to the one Roic had used. The ba had gone shopping
in Engineering, too. Miles pointed at it; Roic's face lightened, and a corner of his
mouth turned up. Someone hadn't forgotten to lock the door behind them when they'd last
left after all, it appeared.
Roic pointed to himself, to the door; Miles shook his head and motioned him to bend
closer. They touched helmets.
Me first. Gotta grab that case before the ba can react. 'Sides, I need you to pull
back the door.
Roic looked around, inhaled, and nodded.
Miles motioned him back down to touch helmets one more time. And, Roic? I'm glad I
didn't bring Jankowski.
Roic smiled. Miles stepped aside.
Now. Delay was no one's friend.
Roic bent, splayed his gloved hands across the door, pressed, and pulled. The servos
in his suit whined at the load. The door creaked unwillingly aside.
Miles slipped through. He didn't look back, or up. His world had narrowed to one
goal, one object. The freezer case - there, still on the floor beside the absent
communication officer's station chair. He pounced, grabbed, lifted it up, clutched it
to his chest like a shield, like the hope of his heart.
The ba was turning, yelling, lips drawn back, eyes wide, its hand snaking for a
pocket. Miles's gloved fingers felt for the catches. If locked, toss the case toward
the ba. If unlocked...
The case snapped open. Miles yanked it wide, shook it hard, swung it.
A silver cascade, the better part of a thousand tiny tissue-sampling cryo-storage
needles, arced out of the case and bounced randomly across the deck. Some shattered as
they struck, making tiny crystalline singing noises like dying insects. Some spun. Some
skittered, disappearing behind station chairs and into crevices. Miles grinned
fiercely.
The yell became a scream; the ba's hands shot out toward Miles as if in supplication,
in denial, in despair. The Cetagandan began to stumble toward him, gray face working in
shock and disbelief.
Roic's power-suited hands locked down over the ba's wrists and hoisted. Wrist bones
crackled and popped; blood spurted between the tightening gloved fingers. The ba's body
convulsed as it was lifted up. Wild eyes rolled back. The scream transmuted into a
weird wail, trailing away. Sandal-clad feet kicked and drummed uselessly at the heavy
shin plating of Roic's work suit; toenails split and bled, without effect. Roic stood
stolidly, hands up and apart, racking the ba helplessly in the air.
Miles let the freezer case fall from his fingers. It hit the deck with a thump. With
a whispered word, he called back the outgoing audio in his com link. We've taken the
ba prisoner. Send relief troops. In biotainer suits. They won't need their guns now.
I'm afraid the ship's an unholy mess.
His knees were buckling. He sank to the deck himself, giggling uncontrollably.
Corbeau was rising from his pilot's chair; Miles motioned him away with an urgent
gesture. Stay back, Dmitri! I'm about to...
He wrenched his faceplate open in time. Barely. The vomiting and spasms that wrung
his stomach this time were much worse. It's over. Can I please die now?
Except that it wasn't over, not nearly. Greenlaw had played for fifty thousand lives.
Now it was Miles's turn to play for fifty million.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Miles arrived back in the Idris's infirmary feet first. He was carried by two of the
men from Vorpatril's strike force, which had been hastily converted to, mostly, a
medical relief team, and as such cleared by the quaddies. His porters almost fell down
the unsightly hole Roic had left in the floor. Miles seized back personal control of
his locomotion long enough to stand up, under his own power, and lean rather unsteadily
against the wall by the door to the bio-isolation ward. Roic followed, carefully
holding the ba's remote trigger in a biotainer bag. Corbeau, stiff-faced and pale,
brought up the rear dressed in a loose medical tunic and drawstring pants, and
shepherded by a medtech with the ba's hypospray in another biotainer sack.
Captain Clogston came out through the buzzing blue barriers and looked over his new
influx of patients and assistants. Right, he announced, glowering at the gap in the
deck. This ship is so damned befouled, I'm declaring the whole thing a Level Three
Biocontamination Zone. So we may as well spread out and get comfortable, boys.
The techs made a human chain to pass the analyzing equipment quickly to the outer
chamber. Miles snared the chance for a few brief, urgent words with the two men with
medical markings on their suits who stood apart from the rest - the Prince Xav's
military interrogation officers. Not really in disguise, merely discreet - and, Miles
had to allow, they were medically trained.
The second ward was declared a temporary holding cell for their prisoner, the ba, who
followed in the procession, bound to a float pallet. Miles scowled as the pallet
drifted past, towed on its control lead by a watchful, muscular sergeant. The ba was
strapped down tightly, but its head and eyes rolled oddly, and its saliva-flecked lips
writhed.
Above almost anything else, it was essential to keep the ba in Barrayaran hands.
Finding where the ba had hidden its filthy bio-bomb on Graf Station was the first
priority. The haut race had some genetically engineered immunity to the most common
interrogation drugs and their derivatives; if fast-penta didn't work on this one, it
would give the quaddies very little in the way of interrogation procedures to fall back
upon that would pass Adjudicator Leutwyn's approval. In this emergency, military rules
seemed more appropriate than civilian ones. In other words, if they'll just leave us
alone we'll pull out the ba's fingernails for them.
Miles caught Clogston by the elbow. How is Bel Thorne doing? he demanded.
The fleet surgeon shook his head. Not well, my Lord Auditor. We thought at first the
herm was improving, as the filters cut in - it seemed to return to consciousness. But
then it became restless. Moaning and trying to talk. Out of its head, I think. It keeps
crying for Admiral Vorpatril.
Vorpatril? Why? Wait - Did Bel say Vorpatril? Miles asked sharply. Or just, the
Admiral?
Clogston shrugged. Vorpatril's the only admiral around right now, although I suppose
the portmaster could be hallucinating altogether. I hate to sedate anyone so
physiologically distressed, especially when they've just fought their way out of a drug
fog. But if that herm doesn't calm down, we'll have to.
Miles frowned and hurried into the isolation ward. Clogston followed. Miles pulled
off his helmet, fished his wrist com back out of it, and clutched the vital link safely
in his hand. A tech was making up the hastily cleared second bunk, readying it for the
infected Lord Auditor, presumably.
Bel now lay on the first bunk, dried off and dressed in a pale green Barrayaran
military-issue patient tunic, which seemed at first heartening progress. But the herm
was gray-faced, lips purple-blue, eyelids fluttering. An IV pump, not dependent upon
potentially erratic ship's gravity, infused yellow fluid rapidly into Bel's right arm.
The left arm was strapped to a board; plastic tubing filled with blood ran from under a
bandage and into a hybrid appliance bound around with quantities of plastic tape. A
second tube ran back again, its dark surface moist with condensation.
'S balla, Bel moaned. 'S balla.
The fleet surgeon's lips pursed in medical displeasure behind his faceplate. He edged
forward to glance at a monitor. Blood pressure's way up, too. I think it's time to
knock the poor bugger back out.
Wait. Miles elbowed to the edge of Bel's bunk to put himself in Bel's line of
sight, staring down at the herm in wild hope. Bel's head jerked. The eyelids flickered
up; the eyes widened. The blue lips tried to move again. Bel licked them, took a long
inhalation, and tried once more. Adm'ral! Portent. 'S basti'd hid it in the balla.
Tol' me. Sadist'c basti'd.
Still going on about Admiral Vorpatril, Clogston muttered in dismay.
Not Admiral Vorpatril. Me, breathed Miles. Did that witty mind still exist, in the
bunker of its brain? Bel's eyes were open, shifting to try to focus on him, as if
Miles's image wavered and blurred in the herm's sight.
Bel knew a portent. No. Bel was trying to say something important. Bel wrestled death
for the possession of its own mouth to try to get the message out. Balla? Ballistic?
Balalaika? No - ballet!
Miles said urgently, The ba hid its bio-bomb at the ballet - in the Minchenko
Auditorium? Is that what you're trying to say, Bel?
The straining body sagged in relief. Yeh. Yeh. Get 's word out. In the lights, I
thin'.
Was there only one bomb? Or were there more? Did the ba say, could you tell?
Don' know. 'S homemade, I thin'. Check. Purch'ses...
Right, got it! Good work, Captain Thorne. You always were the best, Bel. Miles
turned half away and spoke forcefully into his wrist com, demanding to be patched
through to Greenlaw, or Venn, or Watts, or somebody in authority on Graf Station.
A ragged female voice finally replied, Yes?
Sealer Greenlaw? Are you there?
Her voice steadied. Yes, Lord Vorkosigan? Do you have something?
Maybe. Bel Thorne reports the ba said that it hid the bio-bomb somewhere in the
Minchenko Auditorium. Possibly behind some lights.
Her breath drew in. Good. We'll concentrate our trained searchers in there.
Bel also thinks the bomb was something the ba rigged itself, recently. It may have
made purchases on Graf Station in the persona of Ker Dubauer that could give you a clue
as to how many it could have devised.
Ah! Right! I'll get Venn's people on it.
Note, Bel's in pretty bad shape. Also, the ba could have been lying. Get back to me
when you know something.
Yes. Yes. Thank you. Hastily, she cut her com. It occurred to Miles to wonder if
she was locked down in protective bio-isolation right now too, as he was about to be,
trying to shape the critical moment at a similar frustrating remove.
Basti'd, Bel muttered. Paralyzed me. Put me in s' damn bod pod. Tol' me. Then
zipped it up. Left me to die, 'magining... Knew... it knew about Nicol 'n me. Saw my
vid cube. Where's m' vid cube?
Nicol is safe, Miles assured Bel. Well, as much as any quaddie on Graf Station at
the moment - if not safe, at least warned. Vid cube? Oh, the little imager full of
Bel's hypothetical children. Your vid cube is put away safely. Miles had no idea if
this last was true or not - the cube might be still in Bel's pocket, destroyed with the
herm's contaminated clothes, or stolen by the ba. But the assertion gave Bel ease. The
exhausted herm's eyes closed again, and its breathing steadied.
In a few hours, I'm going to look like that.
Then you'd better not waste any time now, eh?
With a vast distaste, Miles suffered a hovering tech to help him off with his
pressure suit and underwear - to be taken away and incinerated, Miles supposed. If
you're tying me down here, I want a comconsole set up by my bunk immediately. No, you
can't have that. Miles fended off the tech, who was now trying to pry loose his com
link, then paused to swallow. And something for nausea. All right, put it around my
right arm, then.
Horizontal was scarcely better than vertical. Miles smoothed down his own pale green
tunic and gave up his left arm to the surgeon, who personally attended to piercing his
vein with some medical awl that felt the size of a drinking straw. On the other side a
tech pressed a hypospray against his right shoulder - a potion that would kill the
dizziness and the cramping in his stomach, he hoped. But he didn't yelp until the first
spurt of filtered blood returned to his body. Crap, that's cold. I hate cold.
Can't be helped, my Lord Auditor, Clogston murmured soothingly. We have to lower
your body temperature at least three degrees. It will buy time.
Miles hunched, uncomfortably reminded that they didn't have a fix for this yet. He
stifled a gush of terror, escaping under pressure from the place he'd kept it locked
for the past hours. Not for one second would he allow himself to believe that there was
no cure to be had, that this bio-shit would drag him under and this time he wouldn't
come back up... Where's Roic? He raised his right wrist to his lips. Roic?
I'm in the outer chamber, m'lord. I'm afraid to carry this triggering device through
the bio-barrier till we're sure it's disarmed.
Right, good thinking. One of those fellows out there should be the bomb disposal
tech I requested. Find him and give it to him. Then ride herd on the interrogation for
me, will you?
Yes, m'lord.
Captain Clogston.
The doctor glanced down from where he fiddled with the jury-rigged blood filter. My
lord?
The moment you have a medtech - no, a doctor. The moment you have some qualified men
free, send them to the cargo hold where the ba has the replicators. I want them to run
samples, try to see if the ba has contaminated or poisoned them in any way. Then make
sure the equipment's all running all right. It's very important that the haut infants
all be kept alive and well.
Yes, Lord Vorkosigan.
If the haut babies were inoculated with the same vile parasites presently rioting
through his own body, might the replicators' temperature be turned down to chill them
all, and slow the disease process? Or would such cold stress the infants, damage
them... he was borrowing trouble, reasoning in advance of his data. A trained agent,
conditioned to the correct disconnect between action and imagination, might have
performed such an inoculation, cleaning up every bit of incriminating high-haut DNA
before abandoning the scene. But this ba was an amateur. This ba had another sort of
conditioning altogether. Yes, but that conditioning must have gone very wrong somehow,
or this ba wouldn't have got this far...
Miles added as Clogston turned away, And give me word on the condition of the pilot,
Corbeau, as soon as you have it. The retreating suited figure raised a hand in
acknowledgment.
In a few minutes, Roic entered the ward; he had doffed the bulky powered work suit,
and now wore more comfortable military-issue Level Three biotainer garb.
How's it going over there?
Roic ducked his head. Not well, m'lord. T' ba has gone into some sort of strange
mental state. Raving, but nothing to the point, and the intelligence fellows say its
physiological state is all out of kilter as well. They're trying to stabilize it.
The ba must be kept alive! Miles struggled half-up, a vision of having himself
carried into the next chamber to take charge running through his head. We have to get
it back to Cetaganda. To prove Barrayar is innocent.
He sank back and eyed the humming device filtering his blood hung by his left side.
Pulling out parasites, yes, but also draining the energy the parasites had stolen from
him to create themselves. Siphoning off the mental edge he desperately needed right
now.
He remarshaled his scattering thoughts, and explained to Roic the news Bel had
imparted. Return to the interrogation room and give them the word on this development.
See if they can get any cross-confirmation on the hiding place in the Minchenko
Auditorium, and especially see if they can get anything that would suggest if there is
more than one device. Or not.
Right. Roic nodded. He glanced over Miles's growing array of medical attachments.
By the way, m'lord. Had you happened to mention your seizure disorder to the surgeon
yet?
Not yet. There hasn't been time.
Right. Roic's lips screwed up thoughtfully, in an editorial fashion that Miles
chose to ignore. I'll see to it then, shall I, m'lord?
Miles hunched. Yeah, yeah.
Roic trod out of the ward on both his errands.
The remote comconsole arrived; a tech swung a tray across Miles's lap, laid the vid
plate frame upon it, and helped him sit mostly up, with extra pillows at his back. He
was starting to shiver again. All right, good, the device was Barrayaran military
issue, not just scavenged from the Idris. He had a securable visual link again now. He
entered codes.
Vorpatril's face was a moment or two coming up; riding herd on all this from the
Prince Xav's tactics room, the admiral no doubt had a few other demands on his
attention at the moment. He appeared at last with a, Yes, my lord! His eyes searched
the image of Miles on his vid display. He apparently was not reassured by the view. His
jaw tightened in dismay. Are you all - he began, but edited this fatuity on the fly
to, How bad is it?
I can still talk. And while I can still talk, I need to record some orders. While
we're waiting on the quaddies' search for the bio-bomb - are you following the latest
on that? Miles brought the admiral up to the moment on Bel's intelligence about the
Minchenko Auditorium, and went on. Meanwhile, I want you to select and prepare the
fastest ship in your escort that has a sufficient capacity for the load it's going to
be carrying. Which will be me, Portmaster Thorne, a medical team, our prisoner the ba
and guards, Guppy the Jacksonian smuggler if I can pry him out of quaddie hands, and a
thousand working uterine replicators. With qualified medical attendants.
And me, put in Ekaterin's voice firmly from offsides. Her face leaned briefly into
range of Vorpatril's vid pickup, and she frowned at him. She'd seen her husband looking
like death on a plate more than once before, though; perhaps she wouldn't be as
disturbed as the admiral clearly was. Having an Imperial Auditor get melted to steaming
slime on his watch would be a notable black mark, not that Vorpatril's career wasn't in
a shambles over this episode already.
My courier ship will travel in convoy, carrying Lady Vorkosigan. He cut across
Ekaterin's beginning objection: I may well need one spokesperson along who isn't in
medical quarantine.
She settled back with a dubious Hm.
But I want to make damned sure we're not impeded by any hassles along the way,
Admiral, so have your fleet department start working immediately on our passage
clearances in all the local space polities we're going to have to cross. Speed. Speed
is of the essence. I want to get away the moment we're sure the ba's devil-device has
been cleared from Graf Station. At least with us carrying all these biohazards, no one
is going to want to stop and board us for inspections.
To Komarr, my lord? Or Sergyar?
No. Calculate the shortest possible jump route directly to Rho Ceta.
Vorpatril's head jerked back in startlement. If the orders I received from Sector
Five HQ mean what we think, you'll hardly get passage there. Reception by plasma fire
and fusion shells the moment you pop out of the wormhole, would be what I'd expect.
Unpack, Miles, Ekaterin's voice drifted in.
He grinned briefly at the familiar exasperation in her voice. By the time we arrive
there, I will have arranged our clearances with the Cetagandan Empire. I hope. Or else
they were all going to be in more trouble than Miles ever wanted to imagine. Barrayar
is bringing their kidnapped haut babies back to them. On the end of a long stick. I get
to be the stick.
Ah, said Vorpatril, his gray brows rising in speculation.
Give a head's-up to my ImpSec courier pilot. I plan to start the moment we have
everyone and everything transferred aboard. You can start on the everything part now.
Understood, my lord. Vorpatril rose and vanished out of vid range. Ekaterin moved
back in, and smiled at him.
Well, we're making some progress at last, Miles said to her, with what he hoped
seemed good cheer, and not suppressed hysteria.
Her smile twisted up on one side. Her eyes were warm, though. Some progress? What do
you call an avalanche, I wonder?
No arctic metaphors, please. I'm cold enough. If the medicos get this... infestation
under control en route, perhaps they'll clear me for visitors. We'll want the courier
ship later, anyway.
A medtech appeared, drew a blood sample from the outbound tube, added an IV pump to
the array, raised the bed rails, then bent and began tying down the left arm board.
Hey, objected Miles. How am I supposed to unravel all this mess with one hand tied
behind my back?
Captain Clogston's orders, m'lord Auditor. Firmly, the tech finished securing his
arm. Standard procedure for seizure risk.
Miles gritted his teeth.
Your seizure-stimulator is with the rest of your things aboard the Kestrel,
Ekaterin observed dispassionately. I'll find it and send it across as soon as I
transfer back aboard.
Prudently, Miles limited his response to, Thank you. Check back with me before you
dispatch it - there may be a few other things I'll need. Let me know when you're safely
aboard.
Yes, love. She touched her fingers to her lips and held them up, passing them
through his image before her. He returned the gesture. His heart chilled a little as
her image winked out. How long before they dared touch flesh to warm flesh again? What
if it's never... ? Damn, but I'm cold.
The tech departed. Miles hunched down in his bed. He supposed it would be futile to
ask for blankets. He imagined little tiny bio-bombs set to go off all through his body,
sparking like a Midsummer fireworks display seen at a distance out over the river in
Vorbarr Sultana, cascading to a grand, lethal finale. He imagined his flesh decomposing
into corrosive ooze while he yet lived in it. He needed to think about something else.
Two empires, both alike in indignation, maneuvering for position, massing deadly
force behind a dozen wormhole jumps, each jump a point of contact, conflict,
catastrophe... that was no better.
A thousand almost-ripe haut fetuses, turning in their little chambers, unaware of the
distance and dangers they had passed through, and the hazards still to come - how soon
would they have to be decanted? The picture of a thousand squalling infants dropped
upon a few harried Barrayaran military medicos was almost enough to make him smile, if
only he wasn't so primed to start screaming.
Bel's breath, in the next bunk, was thick and labored.
Speed. For every reason, speed. Had he set in motion everyone and everything that he
could? He ran down checklists in his aching head, lost his place, tried again. How long
had it been since he'd slept? The minutes crawled by with tortuous slowness. He
imagined them as snails, hundreds of little snails with Cetagandan clan markings
coloring their shells, going past in procession, leaving slime-trails of lethal
biocontamination... a crawling infant, little Helen Natalia, cooing and reaching for
one of the pretty, poisonous creatures, and he was all tied up and pierced with tubes
and couldn't get across the room fast enough to stop her...
A bleep from his lap link, thank God, snapped him awake before he could find out
where that nightmare was going. He was still pierced with tubes, though. What time was
it? He was losing track altogether. His usual mantra - I can sleep when I'm dead -
seemed a little too apropos.
An image formed over the vid plate. Sealer Greenlaw! Good news, bad news? Good. Her
lined face was radiant with relief.
We found it, she said. It's been contained.
Miles blew out his breath in a long exhalation. Yes. Excellent. Where?
In Minchenko Auditorium, just as the portmaster said. Attached to the wall in a
stage light cell. It did seem to have been put together hastily, but it was deadly
clever for all of that. Simple and clever. It was scarcely more than a little sealed
plastic balloon, filled with some sort of nutrient solution, my people tell me. And a
tiny charge, and the electronic trigger for it. The ba had stuck it to the wall with
ordinary packing tape, and sprayed it with a little flat black paint. No one would
notice it in the ordinary course of events, not even if they had been working on the
lights, unless they put a hand right on it.
Homemade, then. On the spot?
It would seem so. The electronics, which were off-the-shelf items - and the tape,
for that matter - are all quaddie-make. They match with the purchases recorded to
Dubauer's credit chit the evening after the attack in the hostel lobby. All the parts
are accounted for. There seems to have been only the one device. She ran her upper
hands through her silver hair, massaging her scalp wearily, and squeezed shut eyes
bounded beneath by little dark half-moons of shadow.
That... fits with the timetable as I see it, said Miles. Right up until Guppy
popped up with his rivet gun, the ba evidently thought it had gotten away clean with
its stolen cargo. And with Solian's death. Everything calm and perfect. Its plan was to
pass through Quaddiespace quietly, without leaving a trace. It would not have had any
reason before then to rig such a device. But from that botched murder attempt on, it
was running scared, having to improvise rapidly. Curious bit of foresight, though. It
can't have planned to be trapped on the Idris the way it was, surely.
She shook her head. It planned something. The explosive charge had two leads to its
trigger. One was a receiver for the signal device the ba had in its pocket. The other
was a simple sound sensor. Set to a fairly high decibel level. That of an auditorium
full of applause, for example.
Miles's teeth snapped shut. Oh, yes. Thus masking the pop of the charge, and blowing
out contaminant to the maximum number of people at once. The vision was instant, and
horrifying.
So we think. People come in from other stations all over Quaddiespace to see
performances of the Minchenko Ballet. The contagion could have spread back out with
them through half the system before it became apparent.
Is it the same - no, it can't be what the ba gave to me and Bel. Can it? Was it
lethal, or merely something debilitating, or what?
The sample is in the hands of our medical people now. We should know soon.
So the ba set up its bio-bomb... after it knew real Cetagandan agents would be
following, after it knew it would be compelled to abandon the utterly incriminating
replicators and their contents... I'll bet it put the bomb together and slapped it out
there in a hurry. Maybe it was revenge. Revenge upon the quaddies for all the forced
delays that had so wrecked the ba's perfect plan... ? By Bel's report, the ba was not
above such motivations; the Cetagandan had displayed a cruel humor, and a taste for
bifurcating strategies. If the ba hadn't run into the troubles on the Idris, would it
have retrieved the device, or would it simply have quietly left the bomb behind to go
off on its own? Well, if Miles's own men couldn't get the whole story out of their
prisoner, he damned well knew some people who could.
Good, he breathed. We can go now.
Greenlaw's weary eyes opened. What?
I mean - with your permission, Madame Sealer. He adjusted his vid pickup to a wider
angle, to take in his sinister medical setting. Too late to adjust the color balance
toward a more sickly green. Also, possibly, redundant. Greenlaw's mouth turned down in
dismay, looking at him.
Admiral Vorpatril has received an extremely alarming military communique from
home... Swiftly, Miles explained his deduction about the connection of suddenly
increased tensions between Barrayar and its dangerous Cetagandan neighbor to the recent
events on Graf Station. He talked carefully around the tactical use of trade fleet
escorts as rapid-deployment forces, although he doubted the sealer missed the
implications.
My plan is to get myself, the ba, the replicators, and as much evidence as I can
amass of the ba's crimes back to Rho Ceta, to present to the Cetagandan government, to
clear Barrayar of whatever accusation of collusion is driving this crisis. As fast as
possible. Before some hothead - on either side - does something that, to put it
bluntly, makes Admiral Vorpatril's late actions on Graf Station look like a model of
restraint and wisdom.
That won a snort from her; he forged on. While the ba and Russo Gupta both committed
crimes on Graf, they committed crimes in the Cetagandan and Barrayaran empires first. I
submit we have clear prior claim. And worse - their mere continued presence on Graf
Station is dangerous, because, I promise you, sooner or later their furious Cetagandan
victims will be following them up. I think you've had enough of a taste of their
medicine to make the prospect of a swarm of real Cetagandan agents descending upon you
unwelcome indeed. Cede us both criminals, and any retribution will chase after us
instead.
Hm, she said. And your impounded trade fleet? Your fines?
Let... on my authority, I am willing to transfer of ownership of the Idris to Graf
Station, in lieu of all fines and expenses. He added prudently, As is.
Her eyes sprang wide. She said indignantly, The ship's contaminated.
Yes. So we can't take it anywhere anyway. Cleaning it up could be a nice little
training exercise for your biocontrol people. He decided not to mention the holes.
Even with that expense, you'll come out ahead. I'm afraid the passengers' insurance
will have to eat the value of any of their cargo that can't be cleared. But I'm really
hopeful that most of it will not need to be quarantined. And you can let the rest of
the fleet go.
And your men in our detention cells?
You let one of them out. Are you sorry? Can you not allow Lieutenant Corbeau's
courage to redeem his comrades? That has to be one of the bravest acts I've ever
witnessed, him walking naked and knowing into horror to save Graf Station.
That... yes. That was remarkable, she conceded. By any people's standards. She
regarded him thoughtfully. You went in after the ba too.
Mine doesn't count, Miles said automatically. I was already... he cut the word,
dead. He was not, dammit, dead yet. I was already infected.
Her brows rose in bemused curiosity. And if you hadn't been, what would you have
done?
Well... it was the tactical moment. I have a kind of gift for timing, you see.
And for doubletalk.
That, too. But the ba was just my job.
Has anyone ever told you that you are quite mad?
Now and then, he admitted. Despite everything, a slow smile turned his lips. Not
so much since I was appointed an Imperial Auditor, though. Useful, that.
She snorted, very softly. Softening? Miles trotted out the next barrage. My plea is
humanitarian, too. It is my belief - my hope - that the Cetagandan haut ladies will
have some treatment up their capacious sleeves for their own product. I propose to take
Portmaster Thorne with us - at our expense - to share the cure that I now so
desperately seek for myself. It's only justice. The herm was, in a sense, in my service
when it took this harm. In my work gang, if you like.
Huh. You Barrayarans do look after your own, at least. One of your few saving
graces.
Miles opened his hands in an equally ambiguous acknowledgment of this mixed
compliment. Thorne and I both now labor under a deadline that waits on no committee
debate, I'm afraid, and no one's permission. The present palliative, he gestured
awkwardly at the blood filter, buys a little time. As of this moment, no one knows if
it will buy enough.
She rubbed her brow, as if it ached. Yes, certainly... certainly you must... oh,
hell. She took a breath. All right. Take your prisoners and your evidence and the
whole damned lot - and Thorne - and go.
And Vorpatril's men in detention?
Them, too. Take them all away. Your ships can all go, bar the Idris. Her nose
wrinkled in distaste. But we will discuss the residue of your fines and expenses
further, after the ship is evaluated by our inspectors. Later. Your government can send
someone for the task. Not you, by preference.
Thank you, Madame Sealer, Miles sang in relief. He cut the com, and collapsed back
on his pillows. The ward seemed to be spinning around his head, very slowly, in short
jerks. It wasn't, he decided after a moment, a problem with the room.
* * *
Captain Clogston, who had been waiting by the door for the Auditor to complete this
high-level negotiation, advanced to glower at his cobbled-together blood filter some
more. He then transferred his glower to Miles. Seizure disorder, eh? I'm glad someone
told me.
Yes, well, we wouldn't want you to mistake it for an exotic new Cetagandan symptom.
It's pretty routine. If it happens, don't panic. I come up on my own in about five
minutes. Usually gives me a sort of hangover, afterwards, not that I'd be able to tell
the difference at the moment. Never mind. What can you tell me about Lieutenant
Corbeau?
We checked the ba's hypospray. It was filled with water.
Ah! Good! I thought so. Miles smiled in wolfish satisfaction. Can you pronounce
him clear of bio-horrors, then?
Given that he's been running around this plague-ship bare-ass naked, not until we're
sure we have identified all possible hazards that the ba might have released. But
nothing came up on the first blood and tissue samples we took.
A hopeful - Miles tried not to think, overly optimistic - sign. Can you send the
lieutenant in to me? Is it safe? I want to talk to him.
We now believe that what you and the herm have isn't virulently contagious through
ordinary contact. Once we're sure the ship's clear of anything else, we'll all be able
to get out of these suits, which will be a relief. Although the parasites might
transfer sexually - we'll have to study that.
I don't like Corbeau that much. Send him in, then.
Clogston gave Miles an odd look, and moved off. Miles wasn't sure if the captain had
missed the feeble joke, or merely considered it too feeble to merit a response. But
that transfer sexually theory kicked off a whole new cascade of unpleasant, unwelcome
speculation in Miles's mind. What if the medicos found they could keep him alive
indefinitely, but not get rid of the damned things? Would he never be able to touch any
more of Ekaterin than her holovid image for the rest of his life... ? It also suggested
a new set of questions to put to Guppy about his recent travels - well, the quaddie
doctors were competent, and receiving copies of the Barrayarans' medical downloads;
their epidemiologists were doubtless already on it.
Corbeau pushed through the bio-barriers. He was now somewhat desultorily arrayed in a
disposable mask and gloves, in addition to the medical tunic and some patient slippers.
Miles sat up, pushed away his tray, and unobtrusively twitched open his own tunic,
letting the paling spiderweb of old needle-grenade scars silently suggest whatever they
might to Corbeau.
You asked for me, my Lord Auditor? Corbeau ducked his head in a nervous jerk.
Yes. Miles scratched his nose thoughtfully with his one free hand. Well, hero.
That was a very good career move you just made.
Corbeau hunched a little, mulishly. I didn't do it for my career. Or for Barrayar. I
did it for Graf Station, and the quaddies, and Garnet Five.
And glad I am of it. Nevertheless, people will doubtless be wanting to pin gold
stars on you. Cooperate with me, and I won't make you receive them in the costume you
were wearing when you earned them.
Corbeau gave him a baffled, wary look.
What was the matter with all his jokes today, anyway? Flat, flatter, flattest. Maybe
he was violating some sort of unwritten Auditor protocol, and messing up everyone
else's lines.
The lieutenant said, in a notably uninviting voice, What do you want me to do? My
lord.
More urgent concerns - to put it mildly - are going to compel me to leave
Quaddiespace before my assigned diplomatic mission is quite complete. Nevertheless,
with the true cause and course of our recent disasters here finally dragged out into
the light, what follows should be easier. Besides, there's nothing like the threat of
imminent death to force one to delegate. It is very plain that Barrayar is overdue to
have a full-time diplomatic consulate officer assigned to the Union of Free Habitats. A
bright young man who... is shacked up with a quaddie girl, no, married to, wait, that
wasn't what they called it here, is partners with, yes, very likely, but it hadn't
happened yet. Although Corbeau was thrice a fool if he didn't grab this opportunity to
fix things with Garnet Five for good and all. Likes quaddies, Miles continued
smoothly, and has earned both their respect and gratitude by his personal valor, and
has no objection to a long assignment away from home - two years, was it? Yes, two
years. Such a young man might be particularly well placed to argue effectively for
Barrayar's interests in Quaddiespace. In my personal opinion.
Miles couldn't tell if Corbeau's mouth was open, behind his medical mask. His eyes
had grown rather wide.
I can't imagine, said Miles, that Admiral Vorpatril would have any objection to
releasing you to this detached duty. Or at any rate, to not having to deal with you in
his command structure after all these... complex events. Not that I'd planned to give
him a Betan vote in my Auditorial decrees, mind you.
I... I don't know anything about diplomacy. I was trained as a pilot.
If you went through military jump pilot training, you have already shown that you
can study hard, learn fast, and make confident, rapid decisions affecting other
people's lives. Objection overruled. You will, of course, have a consulate budget to
hire expert staff to assist you in specialized problems, in law, in the economics of
port fees, in trade matters, whatever. But you'll be expected to learn enough as you go
to judge whether their advice is good for the Imperium. And if, at the end of two
years, you do decide to muster out and stay here, the experience would give you a major
boost into Quaddiespace private-sector employment. If there's any problem with all this
from your point of view - or from Garnet Five's, very level-headed woman, by the way,
don't let her get away - it's not apparent to me.
I'll - Corbeau swallowed - think about it. My lord.
Excellent. And not readily stampeded, either, good. Do so. Miles smiled and waved
dismissal; warily, Corbeau withdrew. As soon as he was out of earshot, Miles murmured a
code into his wrist com.
Ekaterin, love? Where are you?
In my cabin on the Prince Xav. The nice young yeoman is getting ready to help carry
my things to the shuttle. Yes, thank you, that too...
Right. I've just about cracked us loose from Quaddiespace. Greenlaw was reasonable,
or at least, too exhausted to argue any more.
She has all my sympathy. I don't think I have a functional nerve left, right now.
Don't need your nerves, just your usual grace. The moment you can get to a
comconsole, call up Garnet Five. I want to appoint that heroic young idiot Corbeau to
be Barrayaran consul here, and make him clean up all this mess I have to leave in my
wake. It's only fair; he certainly helped create it. Gregor did specifically ask that I
assure that Barrayaran ships could dock here again someday. The boy is wobbling,
however. So pitch it to Garnet Five, and make sure that she makes sure Corbeau says
yes.
Oh! What a splendid idea, love. They would make a good team, I think.
Yep. Her for beauty, and um... her for brains.
And him for courage, surely. I think it might work out. I must think what to send
them for a wedding present, to convey my personal thanks.
Partnering present? I don't know, ask Nicol. Oh. Speaking of Nicol. Miles glanced
aside at the sheeted figure in the next bunk. Crucial message delivered, Thorne had
fallen back into what Miles hoped was sleep and not incipient coma. I'm thinking that
Bel really ought to have someone to ride along and take care of it. Or of things for
it. Some kind of support trooper, anyway. I expect the Star Creche will have a fix for
their own weapon - they'd have to, lab accidents, after all. If we get there in time.
But this looks like something that's going to involve a certain amount of really
unpleasant convalescence. I'm not exactly looking forward to it myself. But consider
the alternative... Ask her if she's willing. She could ride in the Kestrel with you,
be some company, anyway. And if neither he nor Bel got out of this alive, mutual
support.
Certainly. I'll call her from here.
Call me again when you're safe aboard the Kestrel, love. Often and often.
Of course. Her voice hesitated. Love you. Get some rest. You sound like you need
it. Your voice has that down-in-a-well sound it gets when... There will be time.
Determination flashed through her own audible fatigue.
I wouldn't dare die. There's this fierce Vor lady who threatened she'd kill me if I
did. He grinned weakly and cut the com.
* * *
He drowsed for a time in dizzy exhaustion, fighting the sleep that tried to overtake
him, because he couldn't be sure it wasn't the ba's hell-disease gaining on him, and he
might not wake up. He marked a subtle change in the sounds and voices that penetrated
from the outer chamber, as the medical team switched over to evacuation-mode. In time,
a tech came and took Bel away on a float pallet. In a little more time, the pallet was
returned, and Clogston himself and another medtech shifted the Imperial Auditor and all
his growing array of life-support trappings aboard.
One of the intelligence officers reported to Miles, during a brief delay in the outer
chamber.
We finally found the remains of Lieutenant Solian, my Lord Auditor. What there was
of them. A few kilograms of... well. Inside a bod pod, folded up and put back in its
wall locker in the corridor just outside the cargo hold where the replicators were.
Right. Thank you. Bring it along. As is. For evidence, and for... the man died doing
his job. Barrayar owes him... debt of honor. Military burial. Pension, family... figure
it all out later...
His pallet rose again, and the corridor ceilings of the Idris flowed past his blurred
gaze for the last time.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Are we there yet? Miles mumbled muzzily.
He blinked open eyes that were not, oddly enough, gluey and sore. The ceiling above
him didn't waver and bend in his vision as though seen mirage-like through rising
desert heat. Breath drawn through his flaring nostrils flowed in coolly and without
clogging impediment. No phlegm. No tubes. No tubes?
The ceiling was unfamiliar. He groped for memory. Fog. Biotainered angels and devils,
tormenting him; someone demanding he piss. Medical indignities, mercifully vague now.
Trying to talk, to give orders, till some hypospray of darkness had shut him down.
And before that: near desperation. Sending frantic messages racing ahead of his
little convoy. The return stream of days-old accounts of wormholes blockaded,
outlanders interned by both sides, assets seized, ships massing, telling its own tale
to Miles's mind, worse for the details. He knew too damned much about the details. We
can't have a war now, you fools! Don't you know there are children almost present? His
left arm jerked, encountering no resistance except for a smooth coverlet beneath his
clutching fingers. ... there yet?
Ekaterin's lovely face bent over him from the side. Not half-hidden behind biotainer
gear. He feared for a moment that this was only a holovid projection, or some
hallucination, but the real warm kiss of breath from her mouth, carried on a puff of
laughter, reassured him of her present solidity even before his hesitant hand touched
her cheek.
Where's your mask? he asked thickly. He heaved up on one elbow, fighting off a wave
of dizziness.
He certainly wasn't in the Barrayaran military ship's crowded, utilitarian sickbay to
which he'd been transferred from the Idris. His bed was in a small but elegantly
appointed chamber that screamed of Cetagandan aesthetics, from the arrays of live
plants through the serene lighting to the view out the window of a soothing seashore.
Waves creamed gently up a pale sandy beach seen through strange trees casting delicate
fingers of shade. Almost certainly a vid projection, since the subliminals of the
atmosphere and sounds of the room also murmured spaceship cabin to him. He wore a
loose, silky garment in subdued gray hues, only its odd accessibilities betraying it as
a patient gown. Above the head of his bed, a discreet panel displayed medical readouts.
Where are we? What's happening? Did we stop the war? Those replicators they found on
their end - it's a trick, I know it -
The final disaster - his speeding ships intercepting tight-beamed news from Barrayar
of diplomatic talks broken off upon the discovery, in a warehouse outside Vorbarr
Sultana, of a thousand empty replicators apparently stolen from the Star Creche, their
occupants gone. Supposed occupants? Even Miles hadn't been sure. A baffling nightmare
of implications. The Barrayaran government had of course hotly denied any knowledge of
how they came to be there, or where their contents were now. And was not believed...
The ba - Guppy, I promised - all those haut babies - I've got to -
You have got to lie still. A firm hand to his chest pushed him back down. All the
most urgent matters have been taken care of.
Who by?
She colored faintly. Well... me, mostly. Vorpatril's ship captain probably shouldn't
have let me override him, technically, but I decided not to point that out to him.
You're a bad influence on me, love.
What? What? How?
I just kept repeating your messages, and demanding they be put through to the haut
Pel and ghem-General Benin. Benin was brilliant. Once he had your first dispatches, he
figured out that the replicators found in Vorbarr Sultana were decoys, smuggled out of
the Star Creche by the ba a few at a time over a year ago in preparation for this. She
frowned. It was apparently a deliberate sleight of hand by the ba, meant to cause just
this sort of trouble. A backup plan, in case anyone figured out that not everyone had
died on the child-ship, and traced the trail as far as Komarr. It almost worked. Might
have worked, if Benin hadn't been so painstaking and levelheaded. I gather that the
internal political circumstances of his investigation were extremely difficult by then.
He really put his reputation on the line.
Possibly even his life, if Miles read between these simple lines. All honor unto
him, then.
The military forces - theirs and ours - have all gone off alert and are standing
down, now. The Cetagandans have declared it an internal, civil matter.
He eased back, vastly relieved. Ah.
I don't think I could have gotten through to them without the haut Pel's name. She
hesitated. And yours.
Ours.
Her lips curved up at that. Lady Vorkosigan did seem a title to conjure with. It
gave both sides pause. That, and yelling the truth over and over. But I couldn't have
held it together without the name.
May I suggest that the name couldn't have held it together without you? His free
hand tightened around hers, on the coverlet. Hers tightened back.
He started up again. Wait - shouldn't you be in biotainer gear?
Not any more. Lie down, drat it. What's the last thing you remember?
My last clear memory is of being on the Barrayaran ship about four days out from
Quaddiespace. Cold.
Her smile didn't change, but her eyes grew dark with memory. Cold is right. The
blood filters fell behind, even with four of them running at once. We could see the
life just draining out of you; your metabolism couldn't keep up, couldn't replace the
resources being siphoned off even with the IVs and nutrient tubes running flat out, and
multiple blood transfusions. Captain Clogston couldn't think of any other way to
suppress the parasites but to put you, Bel, and them into stasis. A cold hibernation.
The next step would have been cryofreeze.
Oh, no. Not again... !
It was the ultimate fallback, but it wasn't needed, thank heavens. Once you and Bel
were sedated and chilled enough, the parasites stopped multiplying. The captains and
crews of our little convoy were very good about rushing us along as fast as was safe,
or a little faster. Oh - yes, we're here; we arrived in orbit around Rho Ceta...
yesterday, I guess it was.
Had she slept since then? Not much, Miles suspected. Her face, though cheerful now,
was drawn with fatigue. He reached for it again, to lightly touch her lips with two
fingers as he habitually did her holovid image.
I remember that you wouldn't let me say good-bye to you properly, he complained.
I figured it would give you more motivation to fight your way back to me. If only
for the last word.
He snorted a laugh, and let his hand fall back to the coverlet. The artificial
gravity probably wasn't turned up to two gees in this chamber, despite his arm feeling
as though it were hung with lead weights. He had to admit, he didn't feel exactly...
chipper. What, then, am I all clear of those hell-parasites?
Her smile returned. All better. Well, that is, that frightening Cetagandan lady
doctor the haut Pel brought with her has pronounced you cured. But you're still very
debilitated. You're supposed to rest.
Rest, I can't rest! What else is happening? Where's Bel?
Sh, sh. Bel's alive too. You can see Bel soon, and Nicol too. They're in a cabin
just down the corridor. Bel took... She frowned hesitantly. Took more damage from
this than you did, but is expected to recover, mostly. In time.
Miles didn't quite like the sound of that.
Ekaterin followed his glance around. Right now we're aboard the haut Pel's own ship
- that is, her Star Creche ship, that she brought from Eta Ceta. The women from the
Star Creche had you and Bel carried across to treat you here. The haut ladies wouldn't
let any of our men aboard to guard you, not even Armsman Roic at first, which caused
the most stupid argument; I was ready to slap everybody concerned, till they finally
decided that Nicol and I could come with you. Captain Clogston was very upset that he
wouldn't be allowed to attend. He wanted to hold back giving them the replicators till
they cooperated, but you can bet I put my foot down on that idea.
Good! And not just because Miles had wanted those little time bombs off Barrayaran
hands at the earliest possible instant. He could not imagine a more psychologically
repugnant or diplomatically disastrous ploy, at this late hour. I remember trying to
calm down that idiot Guppy, who was hysterical about being carried back to the
Cetagandans. Making promises... I hope I wasn't lying through my chattering teeth. Was
it true he was still harboring a reservoir of parasites? Did they fix him, too? Or...
not? I swore on my name that if he'd cooperate in testifying, Barrayar would protect
him, but I expected to be conscious when we arrived....
Yes, the Cetagandan doctor treated him, too. She claims the latent residue of
parasites wouldn't have fired up again, but really, I don't think she was sure.
Apparently, no one has ever survived this bioweapon before. I gathered the impression
that the Star Creche wants Guppy for research purposes even more than Cetagandan
Imperial Security does for criminal charges, and if they have to arm wrestle for him,
the Star Creche will win. Our men did carry out your order; he's still being held on
the Barrayaran ship. Some of the Cetagandans aren't too pleased about that, but I told
them they'd have to deal with you on the subject.
He hesitated, and cleared his throat. Um... I also seem to remember recording some
messages. To my parents. And Mark and Ivan. And to little Aral and Helen. I hope you
didn't... you didn't send them off already, did you?
I set them aside.
Oh, good. I'm afraid I wasn't very coherent by then.
Perhaps not, she admitted. But they were very moving, I thought.
I put it off too long, I guess. You can erase them now.
Never, she said, quite firmly.
But I was babbling.
Nevertheless, I'm going to save them. She stroked his hair, and her smile twisted.
Perhaps they can be recycled someday. After all... next time, you might not have
time.
The door to the chamber slid aside, and two tall, willowy women entered. Miles
recognized the senior of them at once.
The haut Pel Navarr, Consort of Eta Ceta, was perhaps the number-two woman in the
strange secret hierarchy of the Star Creche, after the Empress, haut Rian Degtiar
herself. In appearance, she was unchanged from when Miles had first met her a decade
ago, except perhaps for her hairstyle. Her immensely long, honey-blond hair was
gathered today into a dozen braids, hanging from a level running around the back of her
head from one ear to the other, their decorated ends swinging around her ankles along
with her skirt hem and draperies. Miles wondered if the unsettling, faintly Medusa-like
effect was intended. Her skin was still pale and perfect, but she could not, even for
an instant, be mistaken for young. Too much calm, too much control, too much cool
irony...
Outside the innermost sanctuaries of the Celestial Garden, the high haut women
normally moved in the privacy and protection of personal force bubbles, screened from
unworthy eyes. The fact that she strode here unveiled was alone enough to tell Miles
that he now lay in a Star Creche reserve. The dark-haired woman beside her was old
enough to have streaks of silver in the hair looping down her back among her long
robes, and skin that, while unblemished, was distinctly softened with age. Chill,
deferential, unknown to Miles.
Lord Vorkosigan. The haut Pel gave him a relatively cordial nod. I am pleased to
find you awake. Are you quite yourself again?
Why, who was I before? He was afraid he could guess. I think so.
It was quite a surprise to me that we should meet again this way, although not,
under the circumstances, an unwelcome one.
Miles cleared his throat. It was all a surprise to me, too. Your babies in their
replicators - you have them back? Are they all right?
My people completed their examinations last night. All seems to be well with them,
despite their horrific adventures. I'm sorry that the same was not so for you.
She gave a nod to her companion; the woman proved to be a physician, who, with a few
brusque murmurs, completed a brief medical examination of their Barrayaran guest.
Signing off her work, Miles guessed. His leading questions about the bioengineered
parasites met polite evasion, and then Miles wondered if she were physician - or
ordnance designer. Or veterinarian, except that most veterinarians he'd met showed
signs of actually liking their patients.
Ekaterin was more determined. Can you give me any idea of what long-term side-
effects we should watch for from this unfortunate exposure, for the Lord Auditor and
Portmaster Thorne?
The woman motioned for Miles to refasten his garment, and turned to speak over his
head. Your husband, she made the term sound utterly alien, in her mouth, does suffer
some muscular and circulatory micro-scarring. Muscle tone should recover gradually over
time to near his prior levels. However, added to his earlier cryo-trauma, I would
expect greater chance of circulatory mishaps later in his life. Although as short-lived
as you people are, perhaps the few decades difference in life expectancy will not seem
significant.
Quite the reverse, madam. Strokes, thromboses, blood clots, aneurysms, Miles supposed
was what this translated to. Oh, joy. Just add them to the list, along with needler
guns, sonic grenades, plasma fire, and nerve disruptor beams. And hot rivets and hard
vacuum.
And seizures. So, what interesting synergies might be expected when this circulatory
micro-scarring crossed paths with his seizure disorder? Miles decided to save that
question for his own physicians, later. They could use a challenge. He was going to be
a damned research project, again. Military as well as medical, he realized with a
chill.
The haut woman continued to Ekaterin, The Betan suffered notably more internal
damage. Full recovery of muscle tone may never occur, and the herm will need to be on
guard against circulatory stress of all kinds. A low- or zero-gravity environment might
be the safest for it during its convalescence. I gathered from its partner, the quaddie
female, that this may actually be easy to provide.
Whatever Bel needs will be arranged, Miles vowed. For such a debilitating injury in
the Emperor's service, it shouldn't even take an Imperial Auditor to get ImpSec off
Bel's neck, and maybe rustle up a little medical pension in the bargain.
The haut Pel gave a tiny jerk of her chin. The physician favored the planetary
consort with an obeisant bow, and excused herself.
Pel turned back to Miles. As soon as you feel sufficiently recovered, Lord Auditor
Vorkosigan, ghem-General Benin begs the opportunity to speak with you.
Ah! Dag Benin's here? Good! I want to talk to him, too. Does he have the ba in his
custody yet? Has it been made crystal clear that Barrayar was an innocent dupe in your
ba's illicit travels?
Pel replied, The ba was of the Star Creche; the ba has been returned to the Star
Creche. It is an internal matter, although we are, of course, grateful to ghem-General
Benin for his assistance dealing with any persons outside our purview who may have
aided the ba in its... mad flight.
So, the haut ladies had their stray back. Miles suppressed a slight twinge of pity
for the ba. Pel's quelling tone of voice did not invite further questions from
outlander barbarians. Tough. Pel was the most venturesome of the planetary consorts,
but his likelihood of ever getting her alone, face-to-face, after this moment was
slight, and her likelihood of discussing the matter frankly in front of anyone else
even slighter.
He forged on. I finally deduced the ba must be a renegade, and not, as I'd first
thought, an agent of the Star Creche. I'm most curious about the mechanics of this
bizarre kidnapping. Guppy - the Jacksonian smuggler, Russo Gupta - could only give me
an exterior view of events, and that only from his first point of contact, when the ba
off-loaded the replicators from what I assume was the annual child-ship to Rho Ceta,
yes?
Pel inhaled, but conceded stiffly, Yes. The crime was long planned and prepared, it
now appears. The ba slew the Consort of Rho Ceta, her handmaidens, and the crew of the
ship by poison just after their last jump. They were all dead by the time of the
rendezvous. It set the ship's auto-navigation to take the vessel into the sun of the
system thereafter. To the ba's credit, this was intended as a befitting pyre, of
sorts, she conceded grudgingly.
Given his prior exposure to the arcana of haut funeral practices, Miles could almost
follow this evident point in the prisoner's favor without his brain cramping. Almost.
But Pel spoke of the ba's intention as fact, not conjecture; therefore, the haut ladies
had already had more luck in their interrogation of the deranged ba in one night than
Miles's security people had gained on their whole voyage here. Luck, I suspect, has
nothing to do with it. I thought the ba should have been carrying a greater variety of
bioweapons, if it had any time to loot the child-ship before the vessel was abandoned
and destroyed.
Pel was normally rather sunny, as haut planetary consorts went, but this elicited a
freezing frown. These matters are altogether not for discussion outside the Star
Creche.
Ideally, no. But unfortunately, your... private items managed to travel quite a way
outside the Star Creche indeed. As I can personally testify. They became a source of
very public concern for us, when apprehending the ba on Graf Station. At the time I
left there, no one was certain if we'd identified and neutralized every contagion, or
not.
Reluctantly, Pel admitted, The ba had planned to steal the complete array. But the
haut lady in charge of the consort's... supplies, although dying, managed to destroy
them before her death. As was her duty. Pel's eyes narrowed. She will be remembered
among us.
The dark-haired woman's opposite number, perhaps? Did the chilly physician guard a
similar arsenal on Pel's behalf, perhaps aboard this very ship? Complete array, eh.
Miles filed that tacit admission silently away, for later sharing with ImpSec's highest
echelons, and swiftly redirected the conversation.
But what was the ba actually trying to do? Was it acting alone? If it was, how did
it defeat its loyalty programming?
That is an internal matter, too, she repeated darkly.
Well, I'll tell you my guesses, Miles burbled on, before she could turn away and
end the exchange. I believe this ba to be very closely related to Emperor Fletchir
Giaja, and therefore, to his late mother. I'm guessing this ba was one of the old
Dowager Empress Lisbet's close confidants during her reign. Her bio-treason, her plan
to split the haut into competing subgroups, was defeated after her death -
Not treason, haut Pel objected faintly. As such.
Unsanctioned unilateral redesign, then. For some reason, this ba was not purged with
the others of her inner cadre after her death - or maybe it was, I don't know. Demoted,
perhaps? But anyway, I'm guessing this whole escapade was some sort of misguided effort
to complete its dead mistress's - or mother's - vision. Am I close?
The haut Pel eyed him with extreme distaste. Close enough. It is truly done now, in
any case. The emperor will be pleased with you - again. Some token of his gratitude may
well be forthcoming at the child-ship landing ceremonies tomorrow, to which you and
your lady-wife are invited. The first outlanders - ever - to be so honored.
Miles waved aside this little distraction. I'd trade all the honors for some scrap
of understanding.
Pel snorted. You haven't changed, have you? Still insatiably curious. To a fault,
she added pointedly.
Ekaterin smiled dryly.
Miles ignored Pel's hint. Bear with me. I don't think I've quite got it, yet. I
suspect the haut - and the ba - are not so post-human yet as to be beyond self-
deception, all the more subtle for their subtlety. I saw the ba's face, when I
destroyed that freezer case of genetic samples in front of it. Something shattered.
Some last, desperate... something. He had slain men's bodies, and bore the mark, and
knew it. He did not think he'd ever before slain a soul, yet left the body breathing,
bereft and accusing. I have to understand this.
Pel was clearly not pleased to go on, but she understood the depth of a debt that
could not be paid off with such trivialities as medals and ceremonies. The ba, it
seems, she said slowly, desired more than Lisbet's vision. It planned a new empire -
with itself as both emperor and empress. It stole the haut children of Rho Ceta not
just as a core population for its planned new society, but as... mates. Consorts.
Aspiring to even more than Fletchir Giaja's genetic place, which, while part of the
goal of haut, does not imagine itself the whole. Hubris, she sighed. Madness.
In other words, breathed Miles, the ba wanted children. In the only way it
could... conceive.
Ekaterin's hand, which had drifted to his shoulder, tightened.
Lisbet... should not have told it so much, said Pel. She made a pet of this ba.
Treated it almost as a child, instead of a servitor. Hers was a powerful personality,
but not always... wise. Perhaps... self-indulgent in her old age, as well.
Yes - the ba was Fletchir Giaja's sibling, perhaps the Cetagandan emperor's near-
clone. Elder sibling. Test run, and the test judged successful - and decades of
observant service in the Celestial Garden thereafter, with the question always hovering
- so why was not the ba, instead of its brother, given all that honor, power, wealth,
fertility?
One last question. If you will. What was the ba's name?
Pel's lips tightened. It shall be nameless now. And forevermore.
Erased. Let the punishment fit the crime.
Miles shivered.
* * *
The luxurious lift van banked over the palace of the Imperial Governor of Rho Ceta,
the sprawling complex shimmering in the night. The vehicle began to drop into the vast
dark garden, laced with veins of lights along its roads and paths, which lay to the
east of the buildings. Miles stared in fascination out his window as they swooped down,
then up over a small range of hills, trying to guess if the landscape was natural, or
artificially carved out of Rho Ceta's surface. Partly carved, at any rate, for on the
opposite side of the rise a grassy bowl of an amphitheater sheltered in the slope,
overlooking a silky black lake a kilometer across. Beyond the hills on the lake's other
side, Rho Ceta's capital city made the night sky glow amber.
The amphitheater was lit only by dim, glowing globes lavishly spread across its
width: a thousand haut lady force bubbles, set to mourning white, damped to the barest
visible luminosity. Among them, other pale figures moved softly as ghosts. The view
turned from his sight as the driver of the van swung it about and brought it down to a
gentle landing a few meters inward from the lake shore at one edge of the amphitheater.
The van's internal lighting brightened just a little, in red wavelengths designed to
help maintain the passengers' dark adaptation. In the aisle across from Miles and
Ekaterin, ghem-General Benin turned from his window. It was hard to read his expression
beneath the formalized swirls of black-and-white face paint that marked him as an
Imperial ghem-officer, but Miles took it for pensive. In the red light, his uniform
glowed like fresh blood.
All in all, and even taking into account his sudden close personal introduction to
Star Creche bioweapons, Miles wasn't sure if he'd have cared to trade recent nightmares
with Benin. The past weeks had been exhausting for the senior officer of the Celestial
Garden's internal security. The child-ship, carrying Star Creche personnel who were his
special charge, vanishing en route without a trace; garbled reports leaking back from
Guppy's scrambled trail hinting not only at breathtaking theft, but possible
biocontamination from the Creche's most secret stores; the disappearance of that trail
into the heart of an enemy empire.
No wonder that by the time he had arrived in Rho Cetan orbit last night to
interrogate Miles in person - with exquisite courtesy, to be sure - he'd looked as
tired, even under the face paint, as Miles felt. Their contest for the possession of
Russo Gupta had been brief. Miles certainly sympathized with Benin's strong desire,
with the ba plucked from his hands by the Star Creche, for someone to take his
frustrations out on - but, first, Miles had given his Vor word, and secondly, he
discovered, he could apparently do no wrong on Rho Ceta this week.
Nevertheless, Miles wondered where to drop Guppy when this was all over. Housing him
in a Barrayaran jail was a useless expense to the Imperium. Turning him loose back on
Jackson's Whole was an invitation for him to return to his old haunts, and employment -
no benefit to the neighbors, and a temptation to Cetagandan vengeance. He could think
of one other nicely distant place to deposit a person of such speckled background and
erratic talents, but was it fair to do that to Admiral Quinn... ? Bel had laughed,
evilly, at the suggestion, till it had to stop to breathe.
Despite Rho Ceta's key place in Barrayaran strategic and tactical considerations,
Miles had never set foot on the world before. He didn't now, either, at least not right
away. Grimacing, he allowed Ekaterin and ghem-General Benin to help him from the van
into a floater. In the ceremony to come, he planned to stand on his feet, but a very
little experimentation had taught him that he had better conserve his endurance. At
least he wasn't alone in his need for mechanical aid. Nicol hovered, shepherding Bel
Thorne. The herm sat up and managed its own floater controls, only the oxygen tube to
its nose betraying its extreme debilitation.
Armsman Roic, his Vorkosigan House uniform pressed and polished, took up station
behind Miles and Ekaterin, at his very stiffest and most silent. Spooked half to death,
Miles gauged. Miles couldn't blame him.
Deciding he represented the whole of the Barrayaran Empire tonight, and not just his
own House, Miles had elected to wear his plain civilian gray. Ekaterin seemed tall and
graceful as a haut in some flowing thing of gray and black; Miles suspected under-the-
table female sartorial help from Pel, or one of Pel's many minions. As ghem-General
Benin led the party forward, Ekaterin paced beside Miles's floater, her hand resting
lightly upon his arm. Her faint, mysterious smile was as reserved as ever, but it
seemed to Miles as though she walked with a new and firm confidence, unafraid in the
shadowed dark.
Benin stopped at a small group of men, glimmering up out of the murk like specters,
who were gathered a few meters from the lift van. Complex perfumes drifted from their
clothing through the damp air, distinct, yet somehow not clashing. The ghem-general
meticulously introduced each member of the party to the current haut governor of Rho
Ceta, who was of the Degtiar constellation, cousin in some kind to the present Empress.
The governor, too, was dressed, as were all the haut men present, in the loose white
tunic and trousers of full mourning, with a multilayered white over-robe that swept to
his ankles.
The former occupant of this post, whom Miles had once met, had made it plain that
outlander barbarians were barely to be tolerated, but this man swept a low and
apparently sincere bow, his hands pressed formally together in front of his chest.
Miles blinked, startled, for the gesture more resembled the bow of a ba to a haut than
the nod of a haut to an outlander.
Lord Vorkosigan. Lady Vorkosigan. Portmaster Thorne. Nicol of the Quaddies. Armsman
Roic of Barrayar. Welcome to Rho Ceta. My household is at your service.
They all returned suitably civil murmurs of thanks. Miles considered the wording - my
household, not my government, and was reminded that what he was seeing tonight was a
private ceremony. The haut governor was momentarily distracted by the lights on the
horizon of a shuttle dropping from orbit, his lips parting at he peered up into the
glowing night sky, but the craft banked disappointingly away toward the opposite side
of the city. The governor turned back, frowning.
A few minutes of polite small talk between the haut governor and Benin - formal
wishes for the continued health of the Cetagandan emperor and his empresses, and
somewhat more spontaneous-sounding inquiries after mutual acquaintances - was broken
off again as another shuttle's lights appeared in the wide predawn dark. The governor
swung around to stare again. Miles glanced back over the silent crowd of haut men and
haut lady bubbles scattered like white flower petals across the bowl of the hillside.
They emitted no cries, they scarcely seemed to move, but Miles felt rather than heard a
sigh ripple across their ranks, and the tension of their anticipation tighten.
This time, the shuttle grew larger, its lights brightening as it boomed down across
the lake, which foamed in its path. Roic stepped back nervously, then forward again
nearer to Miles and Ekaterin, watching the bulk of it loom almost above them. Lights on
its sides picked out upon the fuselage a screaming-bird pattern, enameled red, that
glowed like flame. The craft landed on its extended feet as softly as a cat, and
settled, the chinks and clinks of its heated sides contracting sounding loud in the
breathless, waiting stillness.
Time to stand up, Miles whispered to Ekaterin, and grounded his floater. She and
Roic helped hoist him out of it to his feet, and step forward to stand at attention.
The close-cut grass, beneath his booted soles, felt like thick fine carpeting; its
scent was damp and mossy.
A wide cargo hatch opened, and a ramp extended itself, illuminated from beneath in a
pale, diffuse glow. First down it drifted a haut lady bubble - its force field not
opaque, as the others, but transparent as gauze. Within, its float chair could be seen
to be empty.
Miles murmured to Ekaterin, Where's Pel? Thought this was all her... baby.
It's for the Consort of Rho Ceta who was lost with the hijacked ship, she whispered
back. The haut Pel will be next, as she conducts the children in the dead consort's
place.
Miles had met the murdered woman, briefly, a decade ago. To his regret, he could
remember little more of her now than a cloud of chocolate-brown hair that had tumbled
down about her, stunning beauty camouflaged in an array of other haut women of equal
splendor, and a ferocious commitment to her duties. But the float chair seemed suddenly
even emptier.
Another bubble followed, and yet more, and ghem-women and ba servitors. The second
bubble drew up beside the haut governor's group, grew transparent, and then winked out.
Pel in her white robes sat regally in her float chair.
Ghem-General Benin, as you are charged, please convey now the thanks of Emperor the
haut Fletchir Giaja to these outlanders who have brought our Constellations' hopes home
to us.
She spoke in a normal tone, and Miles didn't see the voice pickups, but a faint echo
back from the grassy bowl told him their words were being conveyed to all assembled
here.
Benin called Bel forward; with formal words of ceremony, he presented a high
Cetagandan honor to the Betan, a paper bound in ribbon, written in the Emperor's Own
Hand, with the odd name of the Warrant of the Celestial House. Miles knew Cetagandan
ghem-lords who would have traded their own mothers to be enrolled on the year's Warrant
List, except that it wasn't nearly that easy to qualify. Bel dipped its floater for
Benin to press the beribboned roll into its hands, and though its eyes were bright with
irony, murmured thanks to the distant Fletchir Giaja in return, and kept its sense of
humor, for once, under full control. It probably helped that the herm was still so
exhausted it could barely hold its head upright, a circumstance for which Miles had not
expected to be grateful.
Miles blinked, and suppressed a huge grin, when Ekaterin was next called forward by
ghem-General Benin and bestowed with a like beribboned honor. Her obvious pleasure was
not without its edge of irony either, but she returned an elegantly worded thank you.
My Lord Vorkosigan, Benin spoke.
Miles stepped forward a trifle apprehensively.
My Imperial Master, the Emperor the haut Fletchir Giaja, reminds me that true
delicacy in the giving of gifts considers the tastes of the recipient. He therefore
charges me only to convey to you his personal thanks, in his own Breath and Voice.
First prize, the Cetagandan Order of Merit, and what an embarrassment that medal had
been, a decade ago. Second prize, two Cetagandan Orders of Merit? Evidently not. Miles
breathed a sigh of relief, only slightly tinged with regret. Tell your Imperial Master
from me that he is entirely welcome.
My Imperial Mistress, the Empress the haut Rian Degtiar, Handmaiden of the Star
Creche, also charged me to convey to you her own thanks, in her own Breath and Voice.
Miles bowed perceptibly lower. I am at her service in this.
Benin stepped back; the haut Pel moved forward. Indeed. Lord Miles Naismith
Vorkosigan of Barrayar, the Star Creche calls you up.
He'd been warned about this, and talked it over with Ekaterin. As a practical matter,
there was no point in refusing the honor; the Star Creche had to have about a kilo of
his flesh on private file already, collected not only during his treatment here, but
from his memorable visit to Eta Ceta all those years back. So with only a slight
tightening of his stomach, he stepped forward, and permitted a ba servitor to roll back
his sleeve and present the tray with the gleaming sampling needle to the haut Pel.
Pel's own white, long-fingered hand drove the sampling needle into the fleshy part of
his forearm. It was so fine, its bite scarcely pained him; when she withdrew it, barely
a drop of blood formed on his skin, to be wiped away by the servitor. She laid the
needle into its own freezer case, held it high for a moment of public display and
declaration, closed it, and set it away in a compartment in the arm of her float chair.
The faint murmur from the throng in the amphitheater did not seem to be outrage, though
there was, perhaps, a tinge of amazement. The highest honor any Cetagandan could
achieve, higher even than the bestowal of a haut bride, was to have his or her genome
formally taken up into the Star Creche's banks - for disassembly, close examination,
and possible selective insertion of the approved bits into the haut race's next
generation.
Miles, rolling his sleeve back down, muttered to Pel, It's prob'ly nurture, not
nature, y'know.
Her exquisite lips resisted an upward crook to form the silent syllable, Sh.
The spark of dark humor in her eye was veiled again as if seen through the morning
mist as she reactivated her force shield. The sky to the east, across the lake and
beyond the next range of hills, was turning pale. Coils of fog curled across the waters
of the lake, its smooth surface growing steel gray in reflection of the predawn
luminescence.
A deeper hush fell across the gathering of haut as through the shuttle's door and
down its ramp floated array after array of replicator racks, guided by the ghem-women
and ba servitors. Constellation by constellation, the haut were called forth by the
acting consort, Pel, to receive their replicators. The Governor of Rho Ceta left the
little group of visiting dignitaries/heroes to join with his clan, as well, and Miles
realized that his humble bow, earlier, had not been any kind of irony after all. The
white-clad crowd assembled were not the whole of the haut race residing on Rho Ceta,
just the fraction whose genetic crosses, arranged by their clan heads, bore fruit this
day, this year.
The men and women whose children were here delivered might never have touched or even
seen each other till this dawn, but each group of men accepted from the Star Creche's
hands the children of their getting. They floated the racks in turn to the waiting
array of white bubbles carrying their genetic partners. As each constellation
rearranged itself around its replicator racks, the force screens turned from dull
mourning white to brilliant colors, a riotous rainbow. The rainbow bubbles streamed
away out of the amphitheater, escorted by their male companions, as the hilly horizon
across the lake silhouetted itself against the dawn fire, and above, the stars faded in
the blue.
When the haut reached their home enclaves, scattered around the planet, the infants
would be given up again into the hands of their ghem nurses and attendants for release
from their replicators. Into the nurturing creches of their various constellations.
Parent and child might or might not ever meet again. Yet there seemed more to this
ceremony than just haut protocol. Are we not all called on to yield our children back
to the world, in the end? The Vor did, in their ideals at least. Barrayar eats its
children, his mother had once said, according to his father. Looking at Miles.
So, Miles thought wearily. Are we heroes here today, or the greatest traitors unhung?
What would these tiny, high haut hopefuls grow into, in time? Great men and women?
Terrible foes? Had he, all unknowing, saved here some future nemesis of Barrayar -
enemy and destroyer of his own children still unborn?
And if such a dire precognition or prophecy had been granted to him by some cruel
god, could he have acted any differently?
He sought Ekaterin's hand with his own cold one; her fingers wrapped his with warmth.
There was enough light for her to see his face, now. Are you all right, love? she
murmured in concern.
I don't know. Let's go home.
EPILOGUE
They said good-bye to Bel and Nicol at Komarr orbit.
Miles had ridden along to the ImpSec Galactic Affairs transfer station offices here
for Bel's final debriefing, partly to add his own observations, partly to see that the
ImpSec boys did not fatigue the herm unduly. Ekaterin attended too, both to testify and
to make sure Miles didn't fatigue himself. Miles was hauled away before Bel was.
Are you sure you two don't want to come along to Vorkosigan House? Miles asked
anxiously, for the fourth or fifth time, as they gathered for a final farewell on an
upper concourse. You missed the wedding, after all. We could show you a very good
time. My cook alone is worth the trip, I promise you. Miles, Bel, and of course Nicol
hovered in floaters. Ekaterin stood with her arms crossed, smiling slightly. Roic
wandered an invisible perimeter as if loath to give over his duties to the unobtrusive
ImpSec guards. The armsman had been on continuous alert for so long, Miles thought,
he'd forgotten how to take a shift off. Miles understood the feeling. Roic was due at
least two weeks of uninterrupted home leave when they returned to Barrayar, Miles
decided.
Nicol's brows twitched up. I'm afraid we might disturb your neighbors.
Stampede the horses, yeah, said Bel.
Miles bowed, sitting; his floater bobbed slightly. My horse would like you fine.
He's extremely amiable, not to mention much too old and lazy to stampede anywhere. And
I personally guarantee that with a Vorkosigan liveried armsman at your back, not the
most benighted backcountry hick would offer you insult.
Roic, passing nearby in his orbit, added a confirming nod.
Nicol smiled. Thanks all the same, but I think I'd rather go someplace where I don't
need a bodyguard.
Miles drummed his fingers on the edge of his floater. We're working on it. But look,
really, if you -
Nicol is tired, said Ekaterin, probably homesick, and she has a convalescing herm
to look after. I expect she'll be glad to get back to her own sleepsack and her own
routine. Not to mention her own music.
The two exchanged one of those League of Women looks, and Nicol nodded gratefully.
Well, said Miles, yielding with reluctance. Take care of each other, then.
You, too, said Bel gruffly. I think it's time you gave up those hands-on ops
games, hey? Now that you're going to be a daddy and all. Between this time and the last
time, Fate has got to have your range bracketed. Bad idea to give it a third shot, I
think.
Miles glanced involuntarily at his palms, fully healed by now. Maybe so. God knows
Gregor probably has a list of domestic chores waiting for me as long as a quaddie's
arms all added together. The last one was wall-to-wall committees, coming up with, if
you can believe it, new Barrayaran bio-law for the Council of Counts to approve. It
took a year. If he starts another one with, 'You're half Betan, Miles, you'd be just
the man' - I think I'll turn and run.
Bel laughed; Miles added, Keep an eye on young Corbeau for me, eh? When I toss a
protege in to sink or swim like that, I usually prefer to be closer to hand with a life
preserver.
Garnet Five messaged me, after I sent to tell her Bel was going to live, said
Nicol. She says they're doing all right so far. At any rate, Quaddiespace hasn't
declared all Barrayaran ships non grata forever or anything yet.
That means there's no reason you two couldn't come back someday, Bel pointed out.
Or at any rate, stay in touch. We are both free to communicate openly now, I might
observe.
Miles brightened. If discreetly. Yes. That's true.
They exchanged some un-Barrayaran hugs all around; Miles didn't care what his ImpSec
lookouts thought. He floated, holding Ekaterin's hand, to watch the pair progress out
of sight toward the commercial ship docks. But even before they'd rounded the corner he
felt his face pulled around, as if by a magnetic force, in the opposite direction -
toward the military arm of the station, where the Kestrel awaited their pleasure.
Time ticked in his head. Let's go.
Oh, yes, said Ekaterin.
He had to speed his floater to keep up with her lengthening stride up the concourse.
Gregor waited to greet Lord Auditor and Lady Vorkosigan upon their return, at a
special reception at the Imperial Residence. Miles trusted whatever reward the Emperor
had in mind would be less disturbingly arcane than that of the haut ladies. But
Gregor's party was going to have to be put off a day or two. The word from their
obstetrician back at Vorkosigan House was that the children's sojourn in their
replicators was stretched to nearly its maximum safe extension. There had been enough
oblique medical disapproval in the tone of the message, it didn't even need Ekaterin's
nervous jokes about ten-month twins and how glad she was now for replicators to get him
aimed in the right direction, and no more damned interruptions.
* * *
He'd undergone these homecomings what seemed a thousand times, yet this one felt
different than any before. The groundcar from the military shuttleport, Armsman Pym
driving, pulled up under the porte-cochere of Vorkosigan House, looming stone pile that
it ever was. Ekaterin bustled out first and gazed longingly toward the door, but paused
to wait for Miles.
When they'd left Komarr orbit five days ago he'd traded in the despised floater for a
slightly less despised cane, and spent the journey hobbling incessantly up and down
what limited corridors the Kestrel provided. His strength was returning, he fancied, if
more slowly than he'd hoped. Maybe he would look into getting a swordstick like
Commodore Koudelka's for the interim. He pulled himself to his feet, swung the cane in
briefly jaunty defiance, and offered Ekaterin his arm. She rested her hand lightly upon
it, covertly ready to grab if needed. The double doors swung open on the grand old
black-and-white paved entry hall.
The mob was waiting, headed by a tall woman with roan-red hair and a delighted smile.
Countess Cordelia Vorkosigan actually hugged her daughter-in-law first. A white-haired,
stocky man advanced from the antechamber to the left, face luminous with pleasure, and
stood in line for his chance with Ekaterin before turning to his son. Nikki clattered
down the sweeping stairway and into his mother's arms, and returned her tight hug with
only a tinge of embarrassment. The boy had grown at least three centimeters in the past
two months. When he turned to Miles, and copied the Count's handshake with dauntingly
grown-up resolve, Miles found himself looking up into his stepson's face.
A dozen armsmen and servants stood around grinning; Ma Kosti, the peerless cook,
pressed a splendid bunch of flowers on Ekaterin. The Countess handed off an awkwardly
worded but sincere message of felicitation for their impending parenthood from Miles's
brother Mark, at graduate school on Beta Colony, and a rather more fluent one from his
Grandmother Naismith there. Ekaterin's older brother, Will Vorvayne, unexpectedly
present, took vids of it all.
Congratulations, Viceroy Count Aral Vorkosigan was saying to Ekaterin, on a job
well done. Would you like another? I'm sure Gregor can find you a place in the
diplomatic corps after this, if you want it.
She laughed. I think I have at least three or four jobs already. Ask me again in,
oh, say about twenty years. Her glance went to the staircase leading to the upper
floors, and the nursery.
Countess Vorkosigan, who caught the look, said, Everything is waiting and ready as
soon as you are.
After the briefest of washups in their second-floor suite, Miles and Ekaterin made
their way down a servitor-crowded hallway to rendezvous with the core family again in
the nursery. With the addition of the birth team - an obstetrician, two medtechs, and a
bio-mechanic - the small chamber overlooking the back garden was as full as it could
hold. It seemed as public a birth as those poor monarchs' wives in the old histories
had ever endured, except that Ekaterin had the advantage of being upright, dressed, and
dignified. All of the cheerful excitement, none of the blood or pain or fear. Miles
decided that he approved.
The two replicators, released from their racks, stood side by side on a table, full
of promise. A medtech was just finishing fiddling with a cannula on one. Shall we
proceed? inquired the obstetrician.
Miles glanced at his parents. How did you all do this, back then?
Aral lifted one latch, said his mother, and I lifted the other. Your grandfather,
General Piotr, lurked menacingly, but he came around to a wider way of thinking later.
His mother and his father exchanged a private smile, and Aral Vorkosigan shook his head
wryly.
Miles looked to Ekaterin.
It sounds good to me, she said. Her eyes were brilliant with joy. It lifted Miles's
heart to think that he had given her that happiness.
They advanced to the table. Ekaterin went around, and the techs scrambled out of her
way; Miles hooked his cane over the edge, supported himself with one hand, and raised
the other to match Ekaterin's. A double snap sounded from the latches. They moved down
and repeated the gesture with the second replicator.
Good, Ekaterin whispered.
Then they had to stand out of the way, watching with irrational anxiety as the
obstetrician popped the first lid, swept the exchange tube matting aside, slit the
caul, and lifted the pink squirming infant out into the light. A few heart-stopping
moments clearing air passages, draining and cutting the cord; Miles breathed again when
little Aral Alexander did, and blinked his blurring lashes. He felt less self-conscious
when he noticed his father wipe his eyes. Countess Vorkosigan gripped her skirts at her
sides, forcibly making hungry grandmotherly hands wait their turn. The Count's hand on
Nikki's shoulder tightened, and Nikki in his front-and-center viewpoint lifted his chin
and grinned. Will Vorvayne bobbed around trying to get better vid angles, until his
little sister put on her firmest Lady Ekaterin Vorkosigan voice and quashed his
attempts at stage directing. He looked startled, but backed off.
By some tacit assumption, Ekaterin got first dibs. She held her new son and watched
as the second replicator yielded up her very first daughter. Miles leaned on his cane
at her elbow, his eyes devouring the astonishing sight. A baby. A real baby. His. He'd
thought his children had seemed real enough, when he'd touched the replicators in which
they grew. That was nothing like this. Little Aral Alexander was so small. He blinked
and stretched. He breathed, actually breathed, and placidly smacked his tiny lips. He
had a notable amount of black hair. It was wonderful. It was... terrifying.
Your turn, said Ekaterin, smiling at Miles.
I... I think I'd better sit down, first. He half-fell into an armchair brought
hastily forward for him. Ekaterin tucked the blanket-wrapped bundle into his panicked
arms. The Countess hovered over the back of the chair like some maternal vulture.
He seems so small.
What, four point one kilos! chortled Miles's mother. He's a little bruiser, he is.
You were half that size when you were taken out of the replicator. She continued with
an unflattering description of Miles at that moment that Ekaterin not only ate up, but
encouraged.
A lusty yowl from the replicator table made Miles start; he looked up eagerly. Helen
Natalia announced her arrival in no uncertain terms, waving freed fists and howling.
The obstetrician completed his examination and pressed her rather hastily into her
mother's reaching arms. Miles stretched his neck. Helen Natalia's dark, wet wisps of
hair were going to be as auburn as promised, he fancied, when they dried.
With two babies to go around, all the people lined up to hold them would have their
chances soon enough, Miles decided, accepting Helen Natalia, still making noise, from
her grinning mother. They could wait a few more moments. He stared at the two bundles
more than filling his lap in a kind of cosmic amazement.
We did it, he muttered to Ekaterin, now perching on the chair arm. Why didn't
anybody stop us? Why aren't there more regulations about this sort of thing? What fool
in their right mind would put me in charge of a baby? Two babies?
Her brows drew together in quizzical sympathy. Don't feel bad. I'm sitting here
thinking that eleven years suddenly seems longer that I realized. I don't remember
anything about babies.
I'm sure it'll all come back to you. Like, um, like flying a lightflyer.
He had been the end point of human evolution. At this moment he abruptly felt more
like a missing link. I thought I knew everything. Surely I knew nothing. How had his
own life become such a surprise to him, so utterly rearranged? His brain had whirled
with a thousand plans for these tiny lives, visions of the future both hopeful and
dire, funny and fearful. For a moment, it seemed to come to a full stop. I have no idea
who these two people are going to be.
Then it was everyone else's turn, Nikki, the Countess, the Count. Miles watched
enviously his father's sure grip of the infant on his shoulder. Helen Natalia actually
stopped screaming there, reducing the noise level to one of more generalized, desultory
complaint.
Ekaterin slipped her hand into his and gripped tightly. It felt like free falling
into the future. He squeezed back, and soared.