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In the wake of the death of Empress Rian Degtiar of the Cetagandan Empire, cordiality from Barrayar consists of sending a couple of lieutenants to attend the funeral. It promises to be a series of social scaffolding appointments, a funeral, some more socialization - all of it principally with ghem-lords and -ladies; Barrayaran lieutenants, Ivan is sure, do not rate shoulder-rubbing with haut, but that's all well and good anyway - and then going home. Well enough. They have a diplomatic purpose, but they are not, actually, diplomats - if actual diplomats were supposed to be necessary Ivan assumes someone with Ambassador in front of his name would have been sent in... lieu of... lieutenants.
"Now," Ivan says, for want of better ways to pass the time, "is it, 'Diplomacy is the art of war pursued by other men', or is it the other way around...?"
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middlingalong
The pod lock cycles; the hatch beside Ivan dilates.
Decidedly off the script, a tall broad-shouldered man comes hurtling through it, catching himself on the handlebar next to the hatch and turning his rapid trajectory into a dead-stop float. The hair remaining on his scalp is white, but his face is bare of any more - he doesn't even have eyebrows. His lips move, but he emits no sound other than a faint panting; and after a shocked instant spent staring at the pair of them, his hand darts tensely to the left side of his gray-trimmed mauve vest, reaching for an inner pocket.
Decidedly off the script, a tall broad-shouldered man comes hurtling through it, catching himself on the handlebar next to the hatch and turning his rapid trajectory into a dead-stop float. The hair remaining on his scalp is white, but his face is bare of any more - he doesn't even have eyebrows. His lips move, but he emits no sound other than a faint panting; and after a shocked instant spent staring at the pair of them, his hand darts tensely to the left side of his gray-trimmed mauve vest, reaching for an inner pocket.
thisvorlunatic
"Weapon!" yells Miles—not because he can see what's in the pocket, but purely based on an instinctive reading of the stranger's face and posture, the wide-eyed breathless desperation of someone about to do something dangerous and terrifying, intersecting with the relatively concealed placement of the pocket to form a highly suggestive picture. The pod pilot is still entangled in his seat straps, and Miles doesn't have the skeletal resilience for hand-to-hand combat, but maybe Ivan—?
middlingalong
Ivan swings around his handhold, training taking over, and winds up wrestling the intruder. A nerve disruptor comes loose from the grapple and thwocks against a wall, ready to go off if the interior of this cabin demonstrates bad trigger discipline - not a virtue cabin interiors are known for.
Ivan attempts to get around behind the old fellow and entrap both arms. He's modestly successful for the immediate moment.
Ivan attempts to get around behind the old fellow and entrap both arms. He's modestly successful for the immediate moment.
thisvorlunatic
Miles, from his vantage across the pod, is well placed to observe that the nerve disruptor came from a trouser pocket, not the vest - therefore the intruder, whoever he is, is still armed with something. First things first - he tracks the nerve disruptor's trajectory as it bounces back and forth across the cabin, until he can match course and grab it out of the air without accidentally shooting himself or Ivan, a horrifying prospect to say the least.
His success is well timed, because Ivan has just pinned the old man, and Miles can bounce across the cabin himself to haul open that vest and retrieve the second weapon while he has the chance. A short rod, of unfamiliar design - at first glance he parses it as a shock-stick, but that isn't quite right.
His success is well timed, because Ivan has just pinned the old man, and Miles can bounce across the cabin himself to haul open that vest and retrieve the second weapon while he has the chance. A short rod, of unfamiliar design - at first glance he parses it as a shock-stick, but that isn't quite right.
The intruder howls like the souls of the damned and yanks against Ivan's grip with surprising strength.
thisvorlunatic
Miles prudently bounces away again, aiming his weightless flight to bring him and his battle-spoils to the dubious shelter of the pilot's chair. He's afraid for a moment that whatever he took from that vest pocket was the power pack to an artificial heart, or something similarly vital, to have provoked such a scream—but that theory is disproved by a moment's glance at the man's continuing violent struggles. Dead men are not habitually so lively.
middlingalong
Ivan is now experiencing more thoroughly modest success, which is to say failure, at keeping his captive held.
He spends a bare instant in the hatchway, staring at Miles and the stolen rod with a strange expression on his hairless face, before turning and fleeing down the flex tube into the docking bay - perhaps because the pilot has finally extracted himself from his safety harness and the odds are now two against one in terms of practical combatants.
The man gains solid footing in the station's artificial gravity just in time to kick Ivan back down the flex tube with a well-braced boot to the chest, then immediately bolts for one of the docking bay's many exits, disappearing out of sight before anyone can emerge from the flex tube to watch him go.
thisvorlunatic
Ow indeed, since the first obstacle Ivan encounters in his flight is Miles coming the other way. Thankfully the impact is soft enough and distributed enough not to break any bones, but Miles still curses silently as the distorted echoes of retreating footsteps become quieter and more distant and he's still trying to sort out their tangled trajectories and get them both into the station and on their feet.
The pilot glances past them to verify the lack of any obvious dangers in the dimly lit docking bay - easy to do, since in point of fact it contains nothing but Miles, Ivan, and an assortment of doors and hallway openings - and then hurries back along the tube to answer his beeping com alarm.
The pilot glances past them to verify the lack of any obvious dangers in the dimly lit docking bay - easy to do, since in point of fact it contains nothing but Miles, Ivan, and an assortment of doors and hallway openings - and then hurries back along the tube to answer his beeping com alarm.
middlingalong
Ivan hauls himself to his feet.
"Y'know," he remarks, "if that was the customs inspector, we're in trouble."
"Y'know," he remarks, "if that was the customs inspector, we're in trouble."
thisvorlunatic
Right now, Miles will gladly take the Ivan-est of Ivan-utterances over the laboured gasping of a moment ago.
"I thought he was about to draw on us," he says. "It looked like it."
"I thought he was about to draw on us," he says. "It looked like it."
thisvorlunatic
"It wasn't the weapon. It was his eyes," he struggles to explain. "He looked like someone about to try something that scared him to death. And he did draw."
middlingalong
"After we jumped him," observes Ivan. "Who knows what he was about to do?"
thisvorlunatic
Miles turns to get a good look at the utterly deserted freight bay. "There's something very wrong here," he says as he takes it all in. "Either he wasn't in the right place - or we weren't. This musty dump can't be our docking port, can it? I mean, where's the Barrayaran ambassador? The honour guard?"
middlingalong
"The red carpet, the dancing girls?" elaborates Ivan, sighing. "You know, if he'd been trying to assassinate you, or hijack the pod, he should have come charging in with that nerve disruptor already in his hand."
thisvorlunatic
And of the two of them, Miles is certainly the more assassinable.
"That was no customs inspector. Look at the monitors," he says, pointing at the two vid pickups in the bay - both hanging loose, torn from their respective wall-mounts, clearly nonfunctional. "He disabled them before he tried to board. I don't understand. Station security should be swarming in here right now..." He searches for an explanation that accounts for the man's visible fear of them, his erratic actions. No stunning insights present themselves. "D'you think he wanted the pod, and not us?"
"That was no customs inspector. Look at the monitors," he says, pointing at the two vid pickups in the bay - both hanging loose, torn from their respective wall-mounts, clearly nonfunctional. "He disabled them before he tried to board. I don't understand. Station security should be swarming in here right now..." He searches for an explanation that accounts for the man's visible fear of them, his erratic actions. No stunning insights present themselves. "D'you think he wanted the pod, and not us?"
thisvorlunatic
"He seemed more scared of us than we were of him," says Miles, regulating his breathing carefully so as not to display how scared he in fact was.
thisvorlunatic
"Are you all right?" it occurs to him to ask. "I mean, no broken ribs or anything?"