Barrayar b-2

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  The Lord Guardian raised a plastic flimsy, and began, “I quote—due to the—”

  “Ah, slick!” murmured Vortala, and Koudelka paused the vid to say, “I beg your pardon, Minister?”

  “The I-quote—he’s just legally distanced himself from the words about to come off that flimsy and out his mouth. Didn’t catch that, the first time. Good, Georgos, good,” Vortala addressed the paralyzed figure. “Go on, Lieutenant, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  The holovid image continued, “—vile murder of the child—Emperor Gregor Vorbarra, and betrayal of his sacred oaths by the would-be usurper Vorkosigan, the Council of Counts declares the false Regent faithless, outcast, stripped of powers and outlawed. This day the Council of Counts confirms Commodore Count Vidal Vordarian as Prime Minister and acting Regent for Dowager-Princess Kareen Vorbarra, forming an emergency caretaker government until such time as a new heir may be found and confirmed by the Council of Counts and Council of Ministers in full council assembled.”

  He continued with further legalities, as the vid panned the chamber. “Freeze it, Koudelka,” Vortala demanded. His lips moved as he counted. “Ha! Not even one-third present. He doesn’t have near a quorum. Who does he think he’s fooling?”

  “Desperate man, desperate measures,” Kanzian murmured as the holo continued at Koudelka’s touch.

  “Watch Kareen,” Vorkosigan said to Cordelia.

  The holo cut back to Vordarian and the Princess. Vordarian went on in such mealy terms, it took Cordelia a moment to unravel the fact that in the phrase “personal protector,” Vordarian was announcing an engagement of marriage. His hand closed earnestly over Kareen’s, though his eye contact was reserved for the holovid. Kareen lifted her hand to receive a ring without changing her calm expression in the slightest. The vid closed with solemn music. The End. They were thankfully spared Betan-style post-mortem commentary; apparently, nobody ever asked the Barrayaran-in-the-street much of anything, at least until major rioting raised the volume to a level no one dared ignore.

  “How would you analyze Kareen’s reaction?” Aral asked Cordelia.

  Cordelia’s brows rose. “What reaction? How, analyze? She never said a word!”

  “Just so. Does she looked drugged to you? Or under compulsion? Or was that real assent? Is she duped by Vordarian’s propaganda, or what?” Frustrated, Vorkosigan eyed the space where the woman’s image had lately been. “She’s always been reserved, but that was the most unreadable performance I’ve ever seen.”

  “Run it again, Kou,” said Cordelia. She had him stop at the best views of Kareen. She studied the frozen face, scarcely less animate than when the holo was running.

  “She doesn’t look woozy or sedated. And her eyes don’t look aside the way the Speakers did.”

  “Nobody threatening her with a weapon?” Vortala guessed.

  “Or perhaps she simply doesn’t care,” Cordelia suggested grimly.

  “Assent, or compulsion?” Vorkosigan repeated.

  “Maybe neither. She’s been dealing with this sort of nonsense all her adult life … what do you expect of her? She survived three years of marriage with Serg, before Ezar sheltered her. She must be a bona fide expert in guessing what not to say and when not to say it.”

  “But to publicly submit to Vordarian—if she thinks he’s responsible for Gregor’s death …”

  “Yes, what does she believe? If she truly thinks her son is dead—even if she doesn’t believe you killed him—then all she has left to look out for is her own survival. Why risk that survival for some dramatic futility, if it won’t help Gregor? What does she owe you, owe us, after all? We’ve all failed her, as far as she knows.”

  Vorkosigan winced.

  Cordelia went on, “Vordarian’s been controlling her access to information, surely. She may even be convinced he’s winning. She’s a survivor; she’s survived Serg and Ezar, so far. Maybe she means to survive you and Vordarian both. Maybe the only revenge she thinks she’ll ever get is to live long enough to spit on all your graves.”

  One of the staff officers muttered, “But she’s Vor. She should have defied him.”

  Cordelia favored him with a glittery grin. “Oh, but you never know what any Barrayaran woman thinks by what she says in front of Barrayaran men. Honesty is not exactly rewarded, you know.”

  The staffer gave her an unsettled look. Drou smiled sourly. Vorkosigan blew out his breath. Koudelka blinked.

  “So, Vordarian gets tired of waiting and appoints himself Regent,” Vortala murmured.

  “And Prime Minister,” Vorkosigan pointed out in return.

  “Indeed, he swells.”

  “Why not go straight for the Imperium?” asked the staff officer.

  “Testing the waters,” said Kanzian.

  “It’s coming, later in the script,” opined Vortala.

  “Or maybe sooner, if we force his hand a bit,” suggested Kanzian. “The last and fatal step. We must consider how to rattle him just a little more.”

  “Not much longer,” Vorkosigan said firmly.

  The ghostly mask of Kareen’s face hung before Cordelia’s mind’s eye all that day, and returned at her waking the next morning. What did Kareen think? What did Kareen feel, for that matter? Perhaps she was as numb as the evidence suggested. Perhaps she was biding her time. Perhaps she was all for Vordarian. If I knew what she believed, I’d know what she was doing. If I knew what she was doing, I’d know what she believed.

  Too many unknowns in this equation. If I were Kareen … Was this a valid analogy? Could Cordelia reason from herself to another? Could anyone? They had likenesses, Kareen and herself, both women, near in age, mothers of endangered sons… . Cordelia took Gregor’s shoe from her meager pile of mountain souvenirs, and turned it in her hand. Mama grabbed me back, but my shoe came off in her hand. I should have fastened it tighter… . Maybe she should trust her own judgment. Maybe she knew exactly what Kareen was thinking.

  When the comconsole chimed, close to the time of yesterday’s call, Cordelia shot to answer it. A new broadcast from the capital, new evidence, something to break that circle of unreason? But the face that materialized over the vidplate was not Koudelka, but a stranger with Intelligence insignia on his collar.

  “Lady Vorkosigan?” he began deferentially.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Major Sircoj, duty—officer at the main portal. It’s my job to screen everyone new reporting in, men who’ve left traitor-units and so on, and to collect any new intelligence they’ve brought with them. We had a man turn up half an hour ago who says he escaped the capital, who refuses to voluntarily debrief. We’ve confirmed his claim that he’s had anti-nterrogation conditioning—if we try to fast-penta him, it’ll kill him. He keeps asking—actually, insisting—to speak with you. He could be an assassin.”

  Cordelia’s heart pounded. She leaned into the holovid as if she might climb through it. “Did he bring anything with him?” she demanded breathlessly. “Like a canister, about half a meter high—lots of blinking lights, and big red letters on top that say This End Up? Looks mysterious as hell, guaranteed to send any security guard into fits—his name, Major!”

  “He brought nothing but the clothes he’s standing in. He’s not in good shape. His name is Vaagen, Captain Vaagen.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “No, Milady! The man is practically raving. Could be dangerous, I can’t let you—”

  She left him talking to an empty room. Droushnakovi had to break into a run to catch up with her. Cordelia made it to the main portal Security offices in less than seven minutes, and paused in the corridor to catch her breath. To catch her soul, that wanted to fly out her mouth. Calm. Calm. Raving apparently cut no ice with Sircoj.

  She lifted her chin and entered the office. “Tell Major Sircoj that Lady Vorkosigan is here to see him,” she told the clerk, who raised impressed brows and obediently bent to his comconsole.

  Sircoj appeared in a few endless minutes—through
that door, Cordelia mentally marked his route. “I must see Captain Vaagen.”

  “Milady, he could be dangerous,” Sircoj began exactly where she’d cut him off before. “He could be programmed in some unexpected way.”

  Cordelia considered unexpectedly grabbing Sircoj by the throat and attempting to squeeze reason into him. Impractical. She took a deep breath. “What will you let me do? Can I at least see him on vid?”

  Sircoj looked thoughtful. “That might be all right. A cross-check on our identification, and we can record. Very well.”

  He took her into another room, and keyed up a monitor viewer. Her breath blew out with a small moan.

  Vaagen was alone in a holding room, pacing from wall to wall. He wore green uniform trousers and a brown-stained white shirt. He was terribly changed from the trim and energetic scientist she’d last seen in his lab at Imp Mil. Both his eyes were ringed with red-purple blotches, one lid swollen nearly shut; the slit glowed a frightening blood-scarlet. He moved bent-over. Bathless, sleepless, swollen lips …

  “You get a medtech for that man!” Cordelia realized she’d yelled when Sircoj jumped.

  “He’s been triaged. His condition is not life—threatening. We can start treating him just as soon as he’s security-cleared,” said Sircoj doggedly.

  “Then you put him on-line with me,” Cordelia said through set teeth. “Drou, go back to the office, call Aral. Tell him what’s going on.”

  Sircoj looked worried at this, but stuck valiantly to his procedures. More endless seconds, while someone went back to the prison-area and took Vaagen to a comconsole.

  His face came up over the plate at last; Cordelia could see her own face reflected in the passionate intensity in his. Connected at last.

  “Vaagen! What happened?”

  “Milady!” His hands clenched, trembling, as he leaned on them toward the vid pickup. “The idiots, the morons, the ignorant, stupid—” he sputtered into helpless obscenities, then caught his breath and began again, quickly, concisely, as if her image might be snatched away again at any moment.

  “We thought we might be all right at first, after the first two days’ fighting trailed off. We hid the replicator at ImpMil, but nobody came. We lay low, and took turns sleeping in the lab. Then Henri managed to smuggle his wife out of town, and we both stayed. We tried to continue the treatments in secret. Thought we might wait it out, wait till rescue. Things had to break, one way or another… .

  “We’d almost stopped expecting them, but they came. Last—yesterday.” He rubbed a hand through his hair as if seeking some connection between real-time and nightmare-time, where clocks ran crazy. “Vordarian’s squad. Came looking for the replicator. We locked the lab, they broke in. Demanded it. We refused, refused to talk, they couldn’t fast-penta either of us. So they beat us up. Beat him to death, like street scum, like he was nobody, all that intelligence, all that education, all that promise wasted, dropped by some mumbling moron swinging a gun butt…” Tears were running down his face.

  Cordelia stood white and stricken; bad, bad attack of defective deja vu. She’d played the lab scene in her head already a thousand times, but she’d never seen Dr. Henri dead on the floor, nor Vaagen beaten senseless.

  “Then they ripped into the lab. Everything, all the treatment records. All Henri’s work on burns, gone. They didn’t have to do that. All gone for nothing!” His voice cracked, hoarse with fury.

  “Did they … find the replicator? Dump it out?” She could see it; she had seen it over and over, spilling… .

  “They found it, finally. But then they took it. And then let me go.” He shook his head from side to side.

  “Took it,” she repeated stupidly. Why? What sense, to take the technology and not the techs? “And let you go. To run to us, I suppose. To give us the word.”

  “You have it, Milady.”

  “Where, do you suppose? Where did they take it?”

  Vorkosigan’s voice spoke beside her. “The Imperial Residence, most likely. All the best hostages are being kept there. I’ll put Intelligence right on it.” He stood, feet planted, grey-faced. “It seems we’re not the only side turning up the pressure.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Within two minutes of Vorkosigan’s arrival at main portal Security, Captain Vaagen was flat on a float pallet and on his way to the infirmary, with the top trauma doctor on the base being paged for rendezvous. Cordelia reflected bitterly on the nature of chain of command; all truth and reason and urgent need were not enough, apparently, to lend causal power to one outside that chain.

  Further interrogation of the scientist had to wait on his medical treatment. Vorkosigan used the time to put Illyan and his department on the new problem. Cordelia used the time to pace in circles in the infirmary’s waiting area. Droushnakovi watched her in silent worry, not so foolish as to offer up reassurances they both knew to be empty.

  At last the trauma man emerged from surgery to announce Vaagen conscious and oriented enough for a brief—he emphasized the brief—questioning. Aral came, trailing Koudelka and Illyan, and they all trooped in to find Vaagen in an infirmary bed, with his eye patched and an IV running fluids and meds.

  Vaagen’s hoarse and weary voice added a few horrific details, but nothing to change the word-picture he’d first given Cordelia.

  Illyan listened with steady attention. “Our people at the Residence confirm,” he reported when Vaagen ran down, depressed whisper trailing to silence. “The replicator was apparently brought in yesterday, and has been placed in the most heavily guarded wing, near Princess Kareen’s quarters. Our loyalists don’t know what it is, they think it’s some kind of a device, maybe a bomb to take out the Residence and everyone in it in the final battle.”

  Vaagen snorted, coughed, and winced.

  “Do they have anyone tending it?” Cordelia asked the question no one else had, so far. “A doctor, a medtech, anyone?”

  Illyan frowned. “I don’t know, Milady. I can try to find out, but every extra communication endangers our people up there.”

  “Mm.”

  “The treatment’s interrupted anyway,” Vaagen muttered. His hand fiddled with the edge of his sheet. “Bitched to hell.”

  “I realize you’ve lost your notes, but could you … reconstruct your work?” Cordelia asked diffidently. “If you got the replicator back, that is. Take up where you left off.”

  “It wouldn’t be where we left off, by the time we got it back. And it wasn’t all in my head. Some of it was in Henri’s.”

  Cordelia took a deep breath. “As I recall, these Escobaran portable replicators run on a two-week service cycle. When did you last recharge the power, and change the filters and add nutrients?”

  “Power cell’s good for months,” Vaagen corrected. “Filters are more of a problem. But the nutrient solution will be the first limiting factor it’ll hit. At its hyped-up metabolic rate, the fetus would starve a couple of days before the system choked on its waste. Breakdown products might overload the filters pretty soon after lean-tissue metabolism began, though.”

  She avoided Aral’s gaze and looked straight at Vaagen, who looked straight back with his one good eye, more than physical pain in his face. “And when did you and Henri last service the replicator?”

  “The fourteenth.”

  “Less than six days left,” Cordelia whispered, appalled.

  “About … about that. What day is this?” Vaagen looked around in an uncharacteristic uncertainty that hurt Cordelia’s heart to watch.

  “The time limit applies only if it’s not being properly taken care of,” Aral put in. “The Residence physician, Kareen and Gregor’s man—wouldn’t he realize something was needed?”

  “Sir,” Illyan said, “the Princess’s physician was reported killed in the first day’s fighting at the Residence. Two cross-confirmations—I have to consider it certain.”

  “They could let Miles die out of sheer ignorance up there,” Cordelia realized in dismay. “As well as on
purpose.” Even one of their own secret loyalists, under the heroic impression he was defusing a bomb, could be a menace to her child.

  Vaagen twisted in his sheets. Aral caught Cordelias eye, and jerked his head toward the door. “Thank you, Captain Vaagen. You have done us extraordinary service. Beyond duty.”

  “Screw duty,” Vaagen muttered. “Bitched to hell … damned ignorant goons …”

  They withdrew, to leave Vaagen to his unrestful recovery. Vorkosigan dispatched Illyan to his multiplied duties.

  Cordelia faced Aral. “Now what?”

  His lips were a flat, hard line, his eyes half-absent with calculation, the same calculations she was running, Cordelia guessed, complicated by a thousand added factors she could only imagine. He said slowly, “Nothing’s changed, really. From before.”

  “It is changed. Whatever the difference there is between being in hiding, and being a prisoner. But why did Vordarian wait till now for this capture? If he was ignorant of Miles’s existence before this, who told him of it? Kareen, maybe, when she decided to cooperate?”

  Droushnakovi looked sick at this suggestion.

  Aral said, “Maybe Vordarian’s playing with us. Maybe he was always keeping the replicator in reserve, till he most needed a new lever.”

  “Our son. In reserve,” Cordelia corrected. She stared into those half-there grey eyes, willing See me, Aral! “We have to talk about this.” She towed him down the corridor to the nearest private room, a doctors’ conference chamber, and turned up the lights. Obediently, he seated himself at the table, Kou at his elbow, and waited for her. She sat down opposite him. We’ve always sat on the same side, before… . Drou stood behind her.

  Aral watched her warily. “Yes, Cordelia?”

  “What’s going on in your head?” she demanded. “Where are we, in this?”

  “I … regret. In hindsight. Regret not sending a raid earlier. The Residence is a far more difficult fortress to penetrate right now than the military hospital, dangerous as a raid on ImpMil would have been. And yet… I could not change that choice. When men on my own staff were asked to wait and sweat, I could not risk men and expend resources for my private benefit. Miles’s … position, gave me the power to demand their loyalty in the face of Vordarian’s pressure. They knew I asked no risk of them and theirs I was unwilling to share myself.”