Captain Vorpatril's Alliance

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  Both Illyan and Allegre had exactly the same expressions of horrified fascination on their faces, Ivan noted in a brief look around.

  “At the time that my engineers dug down to the bunker roof with grav-lifters”—a white circle appeared on the ground level of the park, and grew downward to the blue box in a neat cone—“possibly at the moment that we cut through the roof, the storm sewer unplugged itself. I suspect, but can’t prove yet, that the vibrations from our rescue work might have helped that along. In any case, the sewer unplugged and began draining the Mycoborer tunnel network of what was now a hell of a lot of liquid mud. The ImpSec building directly above acted as a giant weight, compressing the sponge and expressing its contents out the newly opened exit channel.”

  Pulses of red light marched down the storm sewer.

  “And the rest”—Otto sighed—“we all witnessed.” Slowly, as the red sponge flattened, its filaments collapsing, the green cage began to sink below the brown ground lines.

  “How far down d’you think we’ll end up?” asked General Allegre, from his back row.

  “Not much farther, I think. A man should just about be able to jump off the roof to the ground. Without breaking his legs, that is.”

  A little silence followed this word-picture. If Allegre contemplated suicide over all of this, he was going to have to find another method than the traditional parapet, Ivan reflected. Gregor stirred himself and broke the hypnotized hush with, “Thank you, Colonel Otto, that was very clear.”

  “Thank you, sire. But the big question I want answered”—he pointed to the sewer line—“we know damned well that bits of Mycoborer tunnel walls had to have been mixed with the mud. Which has mostly ended up in the river. What’s it doing downstream?” His glare at the Arquas was impartial, but far from impassive.

  “For the answer to that question, I hope Dr. Weddell will have more information than this time yesterday. Doctor?” At Gregor’s gesture, Otto stood down and Weddell took his place.

  Weddell was a distinguished-looking researcher in his sixties. His past, Ivan had reason to know, was considerably more speckled than his appearance would suggest, but that didn’t make him less able to do his job. Possibly the reverse.

  Weddell cleared his throat, nervously. “Well, sire. As we all know, absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. Nevertheless, my field teams have not yet found live Mycoborer cells downstream from the capital. We have, on the other hand, positively identified a few fragments of former tunnel wall, and if the one is present, the other should be, too. One bright spot—the live cells we’ve been studying do not appear to like an environment of salt water. So if any reach the sea, it is unlikely they will survive there.”

  “Told you that,” murmured Lady ghem Estif. “Three days ago.” Weddell gave her a rather driven look.

  “While I do strongly recommend we continue to monitor, it is my opinion that the Mycoborer is less a hazard than several other biological nightmares you Barrayarans have lived with for years, not excepting this planet’s own native ecosystem. Prudence yes, panic no. Add it to the list and go on, I’d say.”

  Tej, listening intently, blinked. “Hey,” she whispered to Ivan. “That fellow’s a Jacksonian. Or he was.”

  “I know,” Ivan whispered back. “So does Gregor. Don’t tell anyone else.”

  Gregor eyed Weddell. “Would you, personally, today, drink water taken from the river downstream of Vorbarr Sultana?” In his present mood Gregor was not above personally testing that very question, Ivan suspected. On Weddell, that was. Did he have a liter bottle tucked away behind the podium?

  “Yes,” said Weddell, steadily, “if it was first boiled to destroy all the eighteen other potentially lethal pathogens usually present. Normal local water treatment should protect your subjects.” And anyone stupid enough to drink untreated water on this planet deserved their removal from the gene pool? Weddell, in Ivan’s prior experience of the man, was perfectly capable of thinking just that, but also smart enough not to say so. Here, at any rate.

  Gregor turned his head. “Dr. Allegre, has that assertion about the water treatment been tested?”

  She sat up and responded, “It . . . could easily be done. It sounds plausible.”

  “In other words, no. Please have your people conduct appropriate tests immediately, and report back as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, sire.” She bent her head to her wristcom.

  “Very well, Dr. Weddell. Continue to monitor closely, yes.” Gregor waved him back to his seat by the administrator; some heads-together conversation seemed to go, Good, you didn’t screw up, and So how about our funding? Otto looked as if he didn’t believe a word of it; Dr. Allegre would presumably pacify the equally dubious General Allegre, later.

  Gregor stared at the rows of Arquas; the Arquas stared back. Shiv did impassive very well indeed. Udine threaded her fingers through her short hair. Lady ghem Estif looked willing to match her one-hundred-and-thirty years against anything Barrayar could throw at her.

  “Now—in my third hat—”

  But not talking through it, no, not Gregor . . .

  “—we come to larger Imperial concerns.”

  Shiv’s dark eyes narrowed in a sudden intensity to nearly match Gregor’s.

  “As you should realize, Barrayar has no practical interest in aggressive ventures in Jacksonian local space. But as you should be even more keenly aware, all bets are off if the Cetagandan Empire makes such a move, directly or through puppets, to gain control of your wormhole exits. My analysts posit that House Prestene is currently such a puppet, contemplating an attempt on a wormhole monopoly.”

  Shiv rumbled, “Other House alliances, however temporary, have traditionally resisted such attempts. Repeatedly.”

  Gregor returned, levelly, “Two down, three to go.”

  Shiv shrugged. “Fell is a tough nut to crack.”

  “Baron Fell is still very aged. At last report.”

  Udine murmured, “True.”

  Gregor didn’t blink. “As it happens, Barrayar could use an ally in the Whole. One ally would in fact be better than five, due to, ah, reciprocal destabilization issues viz Cetaganda. For which a covert ally would be even more use.”

  “For that ten-percent finder’s fee,” mused Shiv, “you might find more than one House for sale.”

  “Yes, but no amount of money can make one stay bought. Who does not freely choose to.”

  “Hm.”

  Gregor held up a finger. “Ten percent—less expenses.”

  Shiv’s brows rose in inquiry.

  “By some miracle,” Gregor continued, “there was no loss of life in last weekend’s disasters.”

  “Are you saying you wouldn’t trade in lives?”

  Gregor gave him a cool look. “On the contrary. I trade in lives every day. They are the coin in which Barrayar has paid for my mistakes since I was twenty years old. But it does mean that the first item on the deductions list will not be generous survivors’ pensions.”

  “I see,” said Shiv, and “Do go on,” said Udine.

  “So instead, I would begin with all the operational expenses of the last week, and onwards, that this emergency has entailed.”

  Shiv was drawn into a seems fair kind of nod; a frugal wifely hand on his arm restrained further premature expression, and he settled back.

  “We also, it would seem, require a new ImpSec building.”

  Shiv’s teeth set slightly; Simon, by his widening eyes, looked as if he were stifling a cry of vicarious joy. Guy Allegre, who had shifted to the edge of his seat at the new, wider turn in the conversation, sat back in his own Do go on mode.

  “The old building is . . . extremely hard to value, in its current location. Some would consider it a priceless historical relic.”

  “Betan dollar?” came a low, imploring mutter from the other end of the row.

  Gregor managed to ignore the interjection. “In any case, it certainly seems wise to escrow some amount of funding for
its eventual cleanup or disposal.”

  “Mm,” said Shiv.

  “Much more critical is the need to escrow an appropriate amount for any cleanup of Mycoborer contamination that may yet be found. That will not be underfunded.”

  Both I.S.I. people perked up.

  This won a pained grunt from Shiv. But—apparently he’d learned something about Barrayar, in this visit—no argument. Because of all the choices of points to dig in his heels about, that would have been the most disastrous. Even more offensive than quibbling over the survivors’ pensions.

  A very small smile curled Gregor’s lips. “It will not be all take and no give, from my, er, Imperial hands, however. To help speed your and your family’s return to the Whole, I propose to throw in, gratis, your own jumpship. Unarmed, but, I am assured, speedy.” Gregor gave a general wave of his index finger orbit-ward.

  This surprised a choke from Byerly. “Vormercier’s yacht? You’d foist that—” he cut himself off.

  “The décor, I am given to understand, is questionable; but the mechanics are sound. My inspecting engineers have guaranteed it. Vorrutyer here has traveled in it, and can so testify.”

  “Yeah, it . . . goes.”

  So long as it goes away, the quirk of Gregor’s eyebrows indicated. “I expect you can get some entertainment out of its resale, later.”

  Shiv tapped his thick fingers together, looking amused for almost the first time this morning. “I’ll look forward to that.”

  “The other gift I mean to give to take with you is—my personal liaison. An experienced ImpSec surveillance agent, and, as I understand it, very nearly a son-in-law. Since, I believe, you have some preferences for keeping important transactions in the family.” Gregor opened his hand to Byerly, sitting in the second row next to Rish. She twisted to look at him in surprise.

  This obviously wasn’t the first time By had heard this proposal from Gregor—when the hell had they had time to meet?—but it was plain that he was still digesting it. “It’ll be all . . . new,” he said weakly.

  Rish, recovering her composure, remarked, “I could probably help you out with that, By. Reciprocity, after all.” Shiv, turning around, eyed her in tolerant speculation.

  Allegre put in, as a kind of backhanded encouragement, “Your Domestic Affairs handler has been afraid you were getting stale, Vorrutyer. He thought you needed a new challenge.”

  No, I don’t! Byerly mouthed to his lap, shoulders hunching slightly. But he didn’t dare look around at Allegre while he did.

  Allegre went on, “I’ll leave you and the Arquas to evolve your own plausible cover story, but at a glance, you seem spoiled for choice.” He managed a thin smile for Rish.

  Shiv and Udine looked at each other. Udine glanced up. “May the two of us be excused to confer in private for a moment?”

  “Of course,” said Gregor.

  They retreated to the hallway; not exactly private, there were guards out there as well, but out of earshot of the room. They were gone a long time, during which there was a lot of shifting and stretching and a run on the coffee and remaining pastries, and on the adjoining lav. Allegre and Simon teamed up to have Colonel Otto rerun his colorful visual aid a few times, at various speeds. It was really hard to read Simon’s emotions, but he didn’t seem to get tired of the show.

  At length, Shiv and Udine returned, to take up a united stance before Gregor.

  “Gregor Vorbarra,” said Shiv, “I do believe you are a worthy grandson of your famous grandfather Ezar.” He stuck out his hand. “You have your deal.”

  Meticulously, Gregor shook each of their hands in turn. “Baron. Baronne.” He couldn’t quite seem to bring himself to say thank you, under the circumstances. But he did manage, “Good luck in your future endeavors.”

  Shiv, about to turn away, turned back. “Emperor Gregor. I do have one purely private favor to ask.”

  A not-quite-nod invited him to go on.

  “May I have the pleasure of informing the man known as Vigo Imola of the estimated valuation of the contents of the bunker—in person?”

  A slight hesitation, as whatever lurid visions of eleventh-hour collusion crossed Gregor’s well-honed imagination. Happily, his imagination didn’t stop there. A faint smile turned his lips. “Fifteen percent, was it not? I believe I see your point.” He motioned to Byerly. “Vorrutyer may escort you.”

  Armsman in front and secretary trailing, Gregor paused on his way out to deal with whatever next crisis might be crowding his queue. Because a three-planet empire delivered upset snakes by the basket-load to this man’s office, every damned morning. Yeah—for all the talk of men coveting the emperor’s throne, Ivan had never yet heard anyone speak of coveting his desk.

  “Ivan.” Gregor’s mouth twisted. “Captain and Lady Vorpatril. I want to see you tomorrow. My secretary will call with your appointment.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  When orders were dropped from that high up, they packed a lot of momentum when they hit ground level, in Ivan’s experience. So he wasn’t surprised when things, which had seemed to be hovering in a holding pattern for the past four days, moved fast.

  Deportation was to be the cover story, it turned out, which had the added advantage of being perfectly true. Just not perfectly complete. Since the members of House Cordonah were, for their own reasons, as anxious to depart as Barrayar was to be rid of them, they swallowed the appearance of defeat and disgrace without choking, much. And also the excellent farewell luncheon smoothly supplied by Dowager Lady Vorpatril.

  After, everyone was escorted by the ImpSec guards downstairs to pack except Lady ghem Estif, captured by Duv Galeni and carried off to Simon’s office, along with a keenly interested Simon. The two hours they were closeted, Duv indicated to Ivan when they all emerged, were not nearly enough for a century’s worth of debriefing.

  “I’m going to send an analyst along on their jumpship as far as Komarr, or maybe Pol Station,” he told Ivan, simultaneously calling up contact codes on his wristcom. “And one of Helen Vorthys’s postdocs or grad students, if she can scramble one in time. That’ll give five to ten more days. Damn I wish I could go myself.” He made his hurried call to the surprised but interested professora. Chasing down one of his own people took a little longer, scattered all over town as they were at the moment, but at that point, all he had to do was snap commands, and some poor ImpSec schmuck’s Winterfair plans were sudden smoke. Ivan hoped there would be compensations.

  “There’ll be a couple of dozen theses on the declassified papers alone,” Duv predicted confidently. “With honors.”

  Well, that was probably someone’s idea of a reward, yeah. Because there was no accounting for taste. “You’re classifying this stuff? After a hundred years? Isn’t that paranoid even for ImpSec?”

  “We’ll be declassifying most of it as fast as we can get through it. But there are some things about the old ghem-junta . . . never mind.” His lips compressed. And opened again to release a, “But you know that history book I gave Lady Tej?”

  “Yes . . . ?”

  “I think there may have to be a new edition.”

  Ivan walked him out to the hallway; by the time they reached the lift tubes in the penthouse foyer, Duv was jogging, and fielding more calls from his wristcom. Eight billion marks, Ivan couldn’t help thinking, and he worries more about the papers . . .

  Or the truth, perhaps. What price that?

  Gregor was providing a courtesy military jump pilot and crew for Vormercier’s yacht for the run to the borders of the empire at Pol Station. This, Ivan gathered, was to make sure they arrived 1) there and 2) nowhere else. The ten days of travel time would be plenty to tightbeam ahead and arrange whatever commercial crew the Arquas wanted to hire on for the next leg. Vetted, Ivan trusted, for ingenious bounty hunters. Jet would be rejoining the Jewels, but Amiri was to travel with his family only as far as Komarr, then transfer to a government courier vessel for a free ride to Escobar, and a safe delivery back to the
Durona Clinic. Any stray bounty hunter who made it that far would be Lily Durona and Mark Vorkosigan’s problem; or rather, vice versa. Definitely vice versa, Ivan reflected.

  His life was simplifying nicely. But not, Ivan trusted, too much. A little uneasy, he took the lift tube down from his mother’s flat to find Tej.

  * * *

  Tej, when she’d had about as much as she could stand of listening to Amiri burble about how happy he was to be going back to Escobar, wandered into her parents’ temporary bedroom. The flat had been hastily furnished with rental beds and a few sofas and chairs, the night they’d all been dumped in here by the Barrayaran authorities; a lot of the meals had been taken upstairs at Lady Alys’s place. No one had urged anything more permanent.

  The Baronne and Lady Alys, or rather, Lady Alys’s competent dresser under their joint supervision, was just finishing packing. The Baronne was remarking, “. . . not my plan at all, but it will certainly do. Flexibility, as Shiv says.”

  She broke off and both mothers looked across at Tej as she entered, Lady Alys rather bemusedly, the Baronne . . . her lips tightened, but not in anger.

  Lady Alys, tactful as always, murmured, “I should just see to a few things upstairs, Udine. I hope to speak with you later, Tej, dear.” Motioning her dresser to close the case and follow, she withdrew. Tej wasn’t sure if she was grateful or not. Spacious as the flat was, the Arquas had more than filled it; that, and all the disruptions of the past few days, had allowed Tej to dodge intimate tête-à-têtes pretty much since the rescue.

  The Baronne plucked at her bangs, her new nervous gesture. Tej hoped her hair would grow out quickly.

  “Have you packed?” the Baronne asked abruptly.

  Tej swallowed. Straightened. “No. Nor am I going to.”

  The Baronne eyed the set of her chin. “You know, when your father and I told you to go with your Barrayaran husband the other day, it was merely because we hoped you could thus avoid arrest, or whatever other retribution the Barrayarans had in mind.”