Cryoburn b-17
Page 25
“Will such confessions be admissible to the local courts?”
“Mm, I need to think about that. The fact that we’re not the local authorities may put a wrinkle in it. Vorlynkin can ask the consulate lawyer.” Miles wondered what that as-yet-unmet woman was making of the recent stream of bizarre legal questions from her client. Well, it was doubtless time she earned her retainer. “In any case, I want to secure the evidence for my own purposes. Birds in the hand and all that.”
“Do we still want to release them, after? If they’re murderers?”
“It sounds as if they were amateurs, not contract killers. And bungling amateurs at that. Eh. Depends on what turns up in the interrogations. Raven can assist, but don’t let them see him. No point in letting them know any more than they do already.”
“And if either or both of them are allergic?”
An induced, and fatal, allergy to fast-penta was not uncommon among galactic covert operatives; Miles wasn’t sure about these civilians. “Have Raven check first. The test patches are in my kit along with the fast-penta. If so, call me.”
Roic nodded. Miles was confident in Roic’s interrogation skills on criminal matters; this was one task he might safely delegate.
“The larger issues…” Miles’s voice slowed. “I don’t have a handle on yet. It’s hard to see how this technology, widely adopted and combined with human nature, wouldn’t run into the same traps everywhere, in due course. In a broader sense, this is Barrayar’s problem, too, or will be.” Good, he had an all-purpose defense for his expense reports for this case. That had been a minor but growing concern.
Roic scratched his head. “Thing is—everyone here’s headed for the same end. If the higher-ups allow the whole system to get too corrupt, how do they expect to assure their own future revivals?”
“Never underestimate the human capacity for wishful thinking and willful blindness,” said Miles. Such as a whole society of people who became so wrapped up in avoiding death, they forgot to be alive?
Roic tapped his fingers on his trouser seam. “Yeah, belike.”
A motion caught Miles’s eye—the outer door of the recovery room opening. Vorlynkin appeared, being anxiously towed by Jin and Mina.
Miles pointed. “Madame Sato, I believe you have some visitors.”
Her head turned. She gasped, under her mask, and her eyes widened. She scrambled from her chair, Raven springing to the alert in case the sudden motion made her dangerously dizzy, but she was already banging out of the booth.
“Jin! Mina!”
“Mommy!”
The pair raced forward, but, since they did not let go of Vorlynkin, the man was pulled into a few long, unbalanced strides that brought him face to face with Madame Sato. She fell to one knee to clutch her children to her, first one, then the other, then both together, as hard as she could hug. Miles thought she might be crying. He made his way to the booth door and leaned on the jamb, watching. Even Jin, with all the austerity of his almost-twelve, didn’t reject the huggy-kissy stuff now.
“Mina!” Madame Sato held her daughter a little away from herself, and stared over her mask. Her voice shook. “You’ve grown!”
For the first time, Miles thought, those eighteen missing months and what they’d stolen from her was brought home. Proof she could touch, not just words and more words.
She looked up at last, in some bewilderment, at Vorlynkin. “And who’s this?”
Mina answered eagerly, “It’s Vorlynkin-san, Mommy. He took care of us at his house. It has a great garden! All Jin’s creatures like it, too.” She grabbed Vorlynkin’s hand and swung on it, without the least dismay on his part.
Vorlynkin smiled and offered Madame Sato his other hand up, which, after her first wobbling attempt to rise, she realized she needed, and took. He was tall enough that she actually had to look up—she’d been eye-to-eye with Leiber.
“Stefin Vorlynkin, Madame Sato. I’m the Barrayaran Consul to Kibou-daini. I’m very pleased to meet you at last.”
She made an abortive motion for her daughter to stop using the consul as a swing-set, but Mina had already abandoned the hand and was running around the pair in excited circles. Jin hopped up and down in a burst of explanations, most of which seemed to turn on the continued health and well-being of his creatures, with special reference to Lucky.
“You’ve been looking after my children?” she said uncertainly.
“Only for the past few days, ma’am. You have a couple of really good kids, there. Very bright.”
Miles thought a flicker of a smile might have turned her mouth, under the mask. It was certainly the first time he’d seen her dark eyes crinkle with pleasure.
Raven intervened at this point to run his still-new revive back to her bed, but he indulgently allowed the family reunion to go along. Miles watched through the glass, the children waving their arms and explaining their lives for the last eighteen months, Madame Sato looking dismayed as she struggled to keep up.
Vorlynkin came to watch over his shoulder. “So glad to see her awake and cognizant. It solves several legal conundrums for me. Now I can actually protect those kids.”
“Just so.” Miles smiled.
Roic collected Raven and padded off about their next task. Leiber, looking confused, waved inarticulately through the glass at the Sato family and said, “But now what do I do?”
Miles turned to him, folding his arms and leaning against the wall. “Well, you’re certainly not a prisoner. The only people on this planet I have the legal authority to actually arrest are other Barrayarans.”
“Uh, but what about Hans and Oki?”
“I didn’t arrest them, I kidnapped them. According to Roic. I see I shall have to explain to you the difference between permission and forgiveness, sometime.”
“And what is the difference?” inquired Vorlynkin, brows rising.
“Success, usually. In any case, Dr. Leiber, you are free to leave at any time. I just don’t recommend it, not unless you have a better plan for hiding out than your last one. Presuming Hans and Oki are not your bosses’ only resource for legwork.”
“No, they’re not,” sighed Leiber.
“You are also free to stay. Camping here overnight would make a better hiding place than any commercial venue, to be sure. We could all use a little time to digest all this, I suspect. Although I’d also suggest you re-think any attempt to make your orbital shuttle tomorrow afternoon. You’d certainly not make it past the shuttleport.”
“No,” Leiber agreed unhappily. “Not now.”
“And what are you going to do next, my Lord Auditor?” asked Vorlynkin.
Miles rubbed his jaw and scowled in thought. “What any commander does when he’s outnumbered, I suppose. Look for allies.”
Chapter Sixteen
Roic’s interrogations of their inadvertent prisoners ran as smoothly as Miles expected, though Hans and Oki’s anxious self-justifications leaked through even their slap-happy fast-penta hazes. As Leiber had guessed, the two deaths had been more the result of clumsiness than malice, although the verbal picture of the pair of goons chasing the frightened old lady Tennoji around her apartment and over her balcony was sickening enough. Their attempt to force down George Suwabi’s lightflyer might actually have worked, if he’d crash landed on dry ground instead of deep water. They could have pulled him out of the safety cage and whisked him off to the freezer openly feigning a quick-thinking rescue of an otherwise fatally injured man. As it was, his drowned corpse had been fished from the waters far too late for even Kibou-daini’s medics to help.
Whether the strict legal definition of their acts was murder or just manslaughter, Miles was still left with the dilemma of how, now, to be rid of his unwanted guests. Catch and release was off the table. They, and their confessions, needed to be turned over to a local police authority, but not one that could be bought by their NewEgypt bosses. Not that it would play out that way, Miles guessed. Roped together by their shared guilt, Hans and Oki would b
e instant sacrifices, and their bosses would purchase their own freedom through a screen of expensive lawyers. Yet Miles wanted to bring down the whole NewEgypt crew, if he could.
The meticulous Roic did get to escort his captives, individually, to the loo, and give them water. For the moment, Miles had Raven put them back into a light medicated doze, although that wasn’t going to be a long-term answer either. Freezing was looking better all the time. Miles damn well wasn’t packing that pair home with him. Barrayar isn’t suffering a goon shortage, and anyway, ours are more competent. On the bright side, the Gang of Four must be thoroughly alarmed by now at the disappearance of their minions and Leiber, hours after they should have reported in. Yeah, it might be time to start rattling a few chains.
The recordings dispatched to the consulate, Miles was at last clear to tackle WhiteChrys, where all this had started what was beginning to seem a rather long time ago. Happily, he had no trouble bulling through to an immediate appointment with Ron Wing. Miles spent the drive out to the west end mentally rehearsing his role, so as not to crack his cover while still accomplishing his aim.
They were met in Wing’s outer office by a smiling executive secretary, who rose to greet them. Also rising from a comfortable-looking chair in the corner, though with a yawn not a smile, was a startling catlike creature, with the tawny body of a miniature lion and wings not unlike Gyre’s, but a disturbingly human-looking face. A colorful little striped head-cloth in the style of Egyptian statuary was tied under its feminine chin. It trotted to Roic, who froze, appalled, as it wound around his legs. It butted his knees—it must have weighed ten kilos—looked up, and opened its mouth not to say, What goes on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, and three legs at night? but a mere breathy half-meow.
“Stop that, Nefertiti,” scolded the secretary, and hoisted the beast to deposit it on her desk. The creature switched its tufted tail and looked offended.
Miles held out a hand for it to sniff as the secretary went on, “It’s all right, she doesn’t bite or scratch. She does shed, though.” She added in cheerful explanation to the still stunned-looking Roic, “They were this year’s promotional give-away by our competitor and neighbor, NewEgypt.”
“I didn’t see them at the conference,” said Miles.
“Oh, they all went the first day. Very popular. They come fitted with a vocabulary of over a dozen words, and are supposed to be great with children. And good for home security.” That last was delivered in a less confident tone.
“Where, um, did they have them made?” Miles inquired.
“Some bioengineering company on Jackson’s Whole, I understood,” she said.
Of course.
“They were shipped frozen, and NewEgypt was able to save money by reviving them in their own labs. But they prove rather tricky to maintain. Very finicky eaters.”
“Cat genes… mostly?” said Miles.
She looked rather doubtfully at the mini-sphinx, who stared back sphinxlike. “I would think so. Wouldn’t you? I’ll tell Mr. Wing you are here, Lord Vorkosigan.”
Wing bustled out promptly to greet his self-invited guests. Leaving Roic in the outer office to chat up the secretary, and perhaps exchange riddles with the sphinx, Miles allowed himself to be ushered into Wing’s inner sanctum by the man himself and settled in a comfy and elegant gel-padded visitor’s chair. Nice corner suite, windows on two sides overlooking the buildings and serene gardens of the complex; Miles was weirdly reminded of Suze’s lair.
Wing took a seat behind his big black glass comconsole desk, folding his hands and looking up in wary inquiry. “You say you have an emergency, Lord Vorkosigan?”
Miles picked a sphinx hair off the sleeve of his gray jacket and tried to remember what he was about. “No, I’d say you do.” He sat back and scowled, wishing his feet touched the floor.
Wing seemed alert, but not alarmed. “How so?”
“I’ve spent a few days poking around Northbridge after the conference, and after our conference. Figuring out just what I’m getting into with my new investment. There turns out to be a hitch. Did you know?” Miles let his scowl go suspicious, in hopes of putting Wing on the defensive.
Wing merely said, “Hm?”
Miles reminded himself to keep in character while he delivered the bad news; smart enough to be believed, not so smart as to be a threat. “The structure of my compensation for services to be rendered depends on the value of my WhiteChrys Solstice shares rising, not falling. If they fall, I will be left holding not a profit, but a debt!”
“They won’t fall,” said Wing confidently.
“I beg to differ. Your parent company, here, is about to suffer a major financial blow.”
Wing did not immediately go on soothing him, but said, “How so?”
“You know all those commodified contracts you’ve bought from NewEgypt? You’ve been sold a lot of dud dead. It turns out that a particular brand of cryo-fluid on the market between fifty and thirty years ago breaks down after a couple of decades, rendering patrons nonrevivable. Brains turned to slush, as my technical consultant so vividly phrased it. Increasingly, any revivals from that period which used that product are likely to fail. Your patrons’ kin are owed back millions in nuyen and all those votes.”
Wing’s lips parted in genuine surprise. “Is this true?”
“You can check it yourselves, as soon as you point your labs in the right direction.”
Wing sank back in his chair. “I certainly shall.”
“NewEgypt is your culprit. The commodified contracts scam originated from there, as I understand it—generated by a fellow named Anish Akabane, their chief financial officer.”
Wing nodded slowly. “I know him. Clever bastard!” He sounded more admiring than outraged.
“It seems to me you have a clear case against NewEgypt, you and every other cryocorp in Northbridge who’s been suckered. You might even combine forces in a joint suit.”
Wing squinted in no-doubt-rapid thought. “Only if it could be proved they knew.”
“It could be proved they knew at least eighteen months ago. You can certainly bring the bandits down.”
Wing held up a hand. “Slow down, Lord Vorkosigan! I share your outrage, but I don’t think the course you suggest will work to protect your investment.”
Leaving aside the airy nature of Miles’s investment. “Sir?”
“This is confidential? You’ve told no one else?”
“I started with you. I’d planned to go on down the row of every corp in the Cryopolis, after.”
“I’m so glad you came to me first. You did the right thing.”
“So I hope, but what do you mean?”
“We have to think first of protecting the value of WhiteChrys and the interests of its shareholders, including yourself. First—after checking the facts, of course—we have this clear, if obviously limited, opportunity to unload our own liabilities. It would be the height of irresponsibility not to seize it. It would be far better for WhiteChrys to let this problem come out slowly and naturally from other sources, rather than springing it on the public all at once and creating an avoidable crisis.”
“I’m not sure I follow you.” I’m afraid I do. Damn. This dog won’t fight.
Wing shook his head. “Every other responsible cryocorp operating team would agree with me. This isn’t something to publicize. It could be very damaging not only to WhiteChrys, but to the whole industry, even to the economy at large.”
“So you’re talking not a joint suit, but a, but a, a joint cover-up?” Don’t sputter, Miles told himself.
“Cover-up is too strong a term.” Wing sighed as if in regret. “Though it would certainly be preferable all around. But if this problem has come so close to the surface that even an off-worlder’s casual inspection can uncover it, it’s clearly far too late for concealment to be effective. The news must be about to break.”
Not so casual as all that, but Miles wasn’t about to tell Wing the details.
“But where, in all this, do those NewEgypt bastards get nailed to the wall?” Miles tried to keep his tone plaintive and not outraged.
“Have you ever heard the phrase, Living well is the best revenge?”
“Where I come from, someone’s head in a bag is generally considered the best revenge.”
“Well, ah, hm. Different cultures and all that. Well. You have delivered me a great deal to do this afternoon, none of which was on my previous schedule.” A broad hint, that, for Miles to decamp and let Wing go grapple with his damage control.
Miles could just picture it; the corps drawing together not in collision but in collusion. “You’ve given me a lot to think about, Wing-san.”
“And the reverse, I’m sure. Some tea, before you go?” Wing was clearly torn between social etiquette and getting on with this new crisis.
Cruelly, Miles said, “Why, yes!” Thus combining living well and revenge, he supposed, if a petty one. They repaired to the outer office, where the secretary was already engaged in filling Roic with green tea and almond cookies, and giving him admiring and grateful glances. The sphinx made plaintive noises from behind the bars of a large… sphinx-carrier.
“I’m so glad you’re taking her,” said the secretary, with a nod at the cage while pouring for Miles and her boss from a delicate porcelain pot. “She’s a very loving creature, and quite tame, but she just doesn’t fit our décor.”
“Ah!” said Wing, brightening. “Have you finally found her a home, Yuko? Good work! I’ll be so glad to get that litter box out of the executive washroom.”