Diplomatic Immunity b-13

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  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 communiqu? 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 d
angerous, 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?”