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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funerary proceedings
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
"'All diplomacy is a continuation of war by other means,'" Miles recites from memory. "Chou En Lai, twentieth century, Earth."
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
"What are you," snorts Ivan, "a walking reference library?"
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
"No, but Commodore Tung is," he explains. "He collects Wise Old Chinese Sayings, and makes me memorize 'em."
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
"So was old Chou a diplomat," Ivan wonders, "or a warrior?"
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
Miles considers this question, and concludes, "I think he must have been a diplomat."
Then the pilot of their personnel pod makes a course adjustment. The force exerted by the attitude jets briefly presses Miles against his seat straps as the pod rotates; when the acceleration ceases, the planet of Eta Ceta IV is visible through the forward viewport. Miles cranes his neck to study it over the pilot's shoulder.
It's a hell of a view.
The retreating dayline, just visible on the far edge of the planet, leaves in its wake a glittering sprawl of civilization so dense and extensive that, orbiting above the nightside, you could probably read by its cumulative glow the way someone on the ground of a less industrialized planet might use the light of full moons. Barrayar, for example. Miles attempts with mixed success to redirect his envy; surely the central planet of the Cetagandan Empire is gaudy and overdressed, in comparison to his home with its few sparkling cities scattered amid the darkness of the unpowered and in some cases still unterraformed landscape. Yes, that's the ticket. Lieutenant Lord Miles Vorkosigan, officer and nobleman, should not be daunted by the mere sight of a planet shinier than his own.
Then the pilot of their personnel pod makes a course adjustment. The force exerted by the attitude jets briefly presses Miles against his seat straps as the pod rotates; when the acceleration ceases, the planet of Eta Ceta IV is visible through the forward viewport. Miles cranes his neck to study it over the pilot's shoulder.
It's a hell of a view.
The retreating dayline, just visible on the far edge of the planet, leaves in its wake a glittering sprawl of civilization so dense and extensive that, orbiting above the nightside, you could probably read by its cumulative glow the way someone on the ground of a less industrialized planet might use the light of full moons. Barrayar, for example. Miles attempts with mixed success to redirect his envy; surely the central planet of the Cetagandan Empire is gaudy and overdressed, in comparison to his home with its few sparkling cities scattered amid the darkness of the unpowered and in some cases still unterraformed landscape. Yes, that's the ticket. Lieutenant Lord Miles Vorkosigan, officer and nobleman, should not be daunted by the mere sight of a planet shinier than his own.
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
Ivan's looking too. It's very shiny; he admires it unselfconsciously as they come up on the orbital transfer station. "Daunted" would not be the word.
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
Of course it wouldn't. Miles glances up at his taller cousin; the envy thereby invoked is much older and tireder, running along grooves worn into his mind by twenty-odd years of unflattering comparisons.
Ivan: six feet tall, quick to show his charming smile, with exactly the impeccable physique for which his standard Barrayaran Imperial Service undress greens were made.
Miles: four foot nine, his face creased with pain-lines, his uniform by necessity hand-tailored to hang as gracefully and unobtrusively as possible on his crooked, inadequate frame. And this after the extensive medical intervention that ensured he has a skeleton at all, even a small and fragile and malformed one, instead of living his life as a floppy pile of meat to be carried around in a bucket.
Hard not to think that his purpose on this diplomatic mission is to stand next to Ivan and make him look good. But at least the old envy comes with a new answer: Miles works for Barrayaran Imperial Security, who pay him to be the genius he is, not the Ivan he isn't. Maybe Ivan was sent along to stand next to Miles and make him sound good. Ha.
Their destination, the Cetagandan orbital transfer station at which they will be received by customs, dawns at last in the viewport. Miles contemplates it, his mind wandering from the sight to the station's purpose as a receiving platform for galactic visitors, and onward to the morbidly entertaining thought that the Cetagandans would consider any attempt by offworlders to land directly on the planet's surface a monstrous breach of etiquette, yes, one likely to be corrected by the nearest orbiting Cetagandan warship - and from there he skips to an entirely different track.
"I wonder if the Dowager Empress's death was entirely natural? It was sudden enough." Do they even use the term 'dowager' on Cetaganda? He can't recall. He should brush up on his diplomatic vocabulary.
Ivan: six feet tall, quick to show his charming smile, with exactly the impeccable physique for which his standard Barrayaran Imperial Service undress greens were made.
Miles: four foot nine, his face creased with pain-lines, his uniform by necessity hand-tailored to hang as gracefully and unobtrusively as possible on his crooked, inadequate frame. And this after the extensive medical intervention that ensured he has a skeleton at all, even a small and fragile and malformed one, instead of living his life as a floppy pile of meat to be carried around in a bucket.
Hard not to think that his purpose on this diplomatic mission is to stand next to Ivan and make him look good. But at least the old envy comes with a new answer: Miles works for Barrayaran Imperial Security, who pay him to be the genius he is, not the Ivan he isn't. Maybe Ivan was sent along to stand next to Miles and make him sound good. Ha.
Their destination, the Cetagandan orbital transfer station at which they will be received by customs, dawns at last in the viewport. Miles contemplates it, his mind wandering from the sight to the station's purpose as a receiving platform for galactic visitors, and onward to the morbidly entertaining thought that the Cetagandans would consider any attempt by offworlders to land directly on the planet's surface a monstrous breach of etiquette, yes, one likely to be corrected by the nearest orbiting Cetagandan warship - and from there he skips to an entirely different track.
"I wonder if the Dowager Empress's death was entirely natural? It was sudden enough." Do they even use the term 'dowager' on Cetaganda? He can't recall. He should brush up on his diplomatic vocabulary.
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
Ivan shrugs, unconcerned with ferreting out possibilities of this nature where they do not present themselves of their own accord. "She was a generation older than Great Uncle Piotr, and he was old since forever. He used to unnerve the hell out of me when I was a kid. It's a nice paranoid theory, but I don't think so."
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
"Illyan agrees with you, I'm afraid. Or he wouldn't have let us come."
Miles declines to bring up the fact that the last words his boss said to him on his way out the door were And stay out of trouble!; as secret mission assignments go, it's somewhat lacking in grandeur. One might almost call it a secret mission admonishment.
"This could have been a lot less dull if it had been the Cetagandan emperor who'd dropped, instead of some tottering little old haut-lady."
Miles declines to bring up the fact that the last words his boss said to him on his way out the door were And stay out of trouble!; as secret mission assignments go, it's somewhat lacking in grandeur. One might almost call it a secret mission admonishment.
"This could have been a lot less dull if it had been the Cetagandan emperor who'd dropped, instead of some tottering little old haut-lady."
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
"But then," says Ivan, still admiring the spectacle, "we would not be here. We'd both be on duty hunkering in some defensive outpost right now, while the prince-candidates' factions fought it out. This is better. Travel, wine, women, song -"
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
"It's a State funeral, Ivan."
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
"I can hope, can't I?"
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
"Anyway, we're just supposed to observe," he says. "And report. What or why, I don't know. Illyan emphasized he expects the reports in writing."
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
Groan. "How I spent my holiday, by little Ivan Vorpatril, age twenty-two. It's like being back in school."
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
"Still," Miles speculates, "it could be fun, embroidering events for Illyan's entertainment. Why should official reports always have to be in that dead dry style?" His mind whirs, alight with possibilities.
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
"Because," says Ivan, "they're generated by dead dry brains. My cousin, the frustrated dramatist. Don't get too carried away. Illyan has no sense of humor, it would disqualify him for his job."
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
"I'm not so sure..."
He watches the intricate exterior of the transfer station rolling past the viewports as their pod travels in its assigned flight path. It's nothing in comparison to the planet it currently occludes, but still vast enough to put him in mind of mountains.
"It would have been interesting to meet the old lady when she was still alive," he muses, meditating on the complexities of the station's construction as a metaphor for the complexities of the civilization that constructed it. "She witnessed a lot of history in a century and a half. If from an odd angle, inside the haut-lords' seraglio." Or whatever it is they have instead. His knowledge of haut society is vague at best - a limitation shared, as he understands it, by nearly all people who aren't haut.
He watches the intricate exterior of the transfer station rolling past the viewports as their pod travels in its assigned flight path. It's nothing in comparison to the planet it currently occludes, but still vast enough to put him in mind of mountains.
"It would have been interesting to meet the old lady when she was still alive," he muses, meditating on the complexities of the station's construction as a metaphor for the complexities of the civilization that constructed it. "She witnessed a lot of history in a century and a half. If from an odd angle, inside the haut-lords' seraglio." Or whatever it is they have instead. His knowledge of haut society is vague at best - a limitation shared, as he understands it, by nearly all people who aren't haut.
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
"Low-life outer barbarians like us would never have been let near her," says Ivan mildly.
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
"Mm, I suppose not," he concedes.
Their personnel pod pauses, making way for a much larger Cetagandan ship to drift past on its way to its own docking hookup. The markings on the side of the vessel relate to one of the outer planetary governments, but Miles can't recall off the top of his head which one.
"All the haut-lord satrap governors—and their retinues—are supposed to be converging for this. I'll bet Cetagandan imperial security is having fun right now." Despite his amusement, and his desire to write exciting reports, he wishes them well. The last thing anyone needs on this trip is some kind of security cockup.
Their personnel pod pauses, making way for a much larger Cetagandan ship to drift past on its way to its own docking hookup. The markings on the side of the vessel relate to one of the outer planetary governments, but Miles can't recall off the top of his head which one.
"All the haut-lord satrap governors—and their retinues—are supposed to be converging for this. I'll bet Cetagandan imperial security is having fun right now." Despite his amusement, and his desire to write exciting reports, he wishes them well. The last thing anyone needs on this trip is some kind of security cockup.
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
"If any two governors come, I suppose the rest have to show up, just to keep an eye on each other. Should be quite a show. Ceremony as Art. Hell, the Cetagandans make blowing your nose an art. Just so they can sneer at you if you get the moves wrong. One-upmanship to the nth power."
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
"It's the one thing that convinces me that the Cetagandan haut-lords are still human, after all that genetic tinkering," Miles remarks.
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
"Mutants on purpose are mutants still," mutters Ivan - then he catches himself and tries to find something interesting in the dwindling view.
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
Miles stiffens. The fact that the label isn't technically accurate - the damage to his bones is teratogenic, not genetic, thank you very much - has historically not done a lot to stop prejudiced Barrayarans from applying it. Something of a sore spot, which Ivan well knows; alas that these things never seem to occur to him before he shoots his mouth off.
"You're so diplomatic, Ivan," he grits. "Try not to start a war single... mouthed, eh?"
"You're so diplomatic, Ivan," he grits. "Try not to start a war single... mouthed, eh?"
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
Ivan shrugs off momentary embarrassment.
When the ship is snugged into its dock, he unstraps himself from his seat.
When the ship is snugged into its dock, he unstraps himself from his seat.
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
In the interest of disguising his excitement, Miles delays his own unstrapping until just a few moments after Ivan is free. He reviews the appropriate salutations for greeting the local Barrayaran anbassador, who will be awaiting them on the other end of the flex tube that links their pod's hatchway to the station's corresponding portal.
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.
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
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—?
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
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.
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
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.
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
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.
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
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.
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
Ivan gives chase.
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.
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
Ow.
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
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.
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
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."
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
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."
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
"You didn't see a weapon before you yelled."
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
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."
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
"After we jumped him," observes Ivan. "Who knows what he was about to do?"
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
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?"
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
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."
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
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?"
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
"You, boy," says Ivan. "No one would be after me."
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
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.
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
"Speak for yourself. He sure scared me."
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
"Are you all right?" it occurs to him to ask. "I mean, no broken ribs or anything?"
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
"Oh, yeah, I'll survive... you?"
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
"I'm all right," he shrugs. In fact, somewhat astonishingly, he doesn't seem to have suffered any damage at all. Not a single bone broken. Well done, Miles.
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
Ivan inspects Miles's newly augmented inventory. Nerve disruptor. Weird rod thing. "How'd you end up with all the weapons?"
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
"I... don't quite know." He tucks the nerve disruptor into his own trouser pocket, engaging the safety lock on the way, and holds the mysterious rod up to catch more of the freight bay's dim light. "I thought at first this was some kind of shock-stick, but it's not. It's something electronic, but I sure don't recognize the design."
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
"A grenade," Ivan suggests blackly. "A time bomb. They can make them look like anything, y'know."
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
"I don't think so—"
"My lords," the pod pilot interrupts from the hatchway. "Station flight control is ordering us not to dock here. They're telling us to stand off and wait clearance. Immediately."
"My lords," the pod pilot interrupts from the hatchway. "Station flight control is ordering us not to dock here. They're telling us to stand off and wait clearance. Immediately."
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
"I thought we must be in the wrong place."
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
"It's the coordinates they gave me, my lord," the pilot objects.
"Not your error, Sergeant, I'm sure," says Miles in his soothingest tones.
"Flight control sounds very forceful. Please, my lords."
Miles follows him back into the pod, hardly paying attention to the routine physical movements of navigating in zero-G and strapping himself back into his seat; his mind is fully occupied trying to analyze this bizarre incident.
"This section of the station must have been deliberately cleared of personnel," he concludes. "I'll bet you Betan dollars Cetagandan security is in process of conducting a sweep-search for that fellow. A fugitive, by God." But what flavour of flyer might he be? Thief, murderer, spy? Thief could explain the mysterious object, murderer the nerve disruptor... spy entails more, and consequentially foggier, possibilities.
"Not your error, Sergeant, I'm sure," says Miles in his soothingest tones.
"Flight control sounds very forceful. Please, my lords."
Miles follows him back into the pod, hardly paying attention to the routine physical movements of navigating in zero-G and strapping himself back into his seat; his mind is fully occupied trying to analyze this bizarre incident.
"This section of the station must have been deliberately cleared of personnel," he concludes. "I'll bet you Betan dollars Cetagandan security is in process of conducting a sweep-search for that fellow. A fugitive, by God." But what flavour of flyer might he be? Thief, murderer, spy? Thief could explain the mysterious object, murderer the nerve disruptor... spy entails more, and consequentially foggier, possibilities.
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
"He was disguised, anyway," says Ivan.
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
"How do you know?"
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
Ivan pulls a sticky-ended cluster of white hairs from his sleeve. "This isn't real hair."
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
"Really?" says Miles, peering at the adhesive on the artificial hairs. "Huh."
Their pod pulls away from the station, revealing the row of docking pockets - empty for a dozen spaces on either side of their first docking site.
"I'll report this incident to the station authorities, shall I, my lords?" says the pilot, reaching for his com controls.
"Wait," says Miles.
"My lord?" The pilot glances over his shoulder with a doubtful expression. "I think we should—"
"Wait till they ask us. After all," he says persuasively, "we're not in the business of cleaning up Cetagandan security's lapses after them, are we? It's their problem."
"Yes, sir," says the pilot, treating the suggestion as an order and thereby depositing all responsibility with Miles, although his brief grin signals that he agrees with the provided reasoning. "Whatever you say, sir."
Their pod pulls away from the station, revealing the row of docking pockets - empty for a dozen spaces on either side of their first docking site.
"I'll report this incident to the station authorities, shall I, my lords?" says the pilot, reaching for his com controls.
"Wait," says Miles.
"My lord?" The pilot glances over his shoulder with a doubtful expression. "I think we should—"
"Wait till they ask us. After all," he says persuasively, "we're not in the business of cleaning up Cetagandan security's lapses after them, are we? It's their problem."
"Yes, sir," says the pilot, treating the suggestion as an order and thereby depositing all responsibility with Miles, although his brief grin signals that he agrees with the provided reasoning. "Whatever you say, sir."
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
"...Miles. What do you think you're doing?"
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
"Observing. I'm going to observe and see how good Cetagandan station security is at their job. I think Illyan would want to know, don't you? Oh, they'll be around to question us, and take these goodies back, but this way I can get more information in return. Relax, Ivan."
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
Ivan - sits, waits, gradually calms down.
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
Miles studies the aforementioned goodies. The nerve disruptor is of unknown but exceptionally fine civilian make - Miles would recognize Cetagandan military issue anywhere. But it's not as glitzy as the ghem-lords tend to make their decorative personal armaments: it's sleekly functional, small enough to carry concealed. Curious, since the Cetagandans are not known for welcoming the dispersal of deadly anti-personnel weapons among their populace.
The other one is yet curiouser. A transparent cylinder, glittering beautifully from within; Miles suspects artfully disguised microcircuitry. One end is plain, the other covered by an engraved seal; he detects a metallic glint from the depths of the grooves.
"This looks like it's meant to be inserted in something," he notes aloud.
The other one is yet curiouser. A transparent cylinder, glittering beautifully from within; Miles suspects artfully disguised microcircuitry. One end is plain, the other covered by an engraved seal; he detects a metallic glint from the depths of the grooves.
"This looks like it's meant to be inserted in something," he notes aloud.
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
"Maybe," suggests Ivan, "it's a dildo."
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
"With the ghem-lords, who can say? But no, I don't think so."
The engraved pattern depicts a screaming bird, wings flared, talons extended. Somewhere, logically, there must be a device embossed with a complementary design, its contact points ready to transmit the codes that open the seal. And then what? Information of some kind, living amid that gorgeous ghostly glitter... what secrets might it hold, in this secretive empire?
The engraved pattern depicts a screaming bird, wings flared, talons extended. Somewhere, logically, there must be a device embossed with a complementary design, its contact points ready to transmit the codes that open the seal. And then what? Information of some kind, living amid that gorgeous ghostly glitter... what secrets might it hold, in this secretive empire?
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
"You... are going to give it back, aren't you?"
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
"Of course," he says. "If they ask for it."
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
"Aaaand if they don't?"
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
"Keep it for a souvenir, I suppose," he says flippantly. "It's too pretty to throw away. Maybe I'll take it home as a present to Illyan, let his cipher-laboratory elves play with it as an exercise." He turns the object over in his hands and adds, "For about a year. It's not an amateur's bauble, even I can tell that."
To forestall further objections, he tucks the thing away in the inner breast pocket of his tunic - and hands Ivan the captured nerve disruptor. "Ah—you want to keep this?"
To forestall further objections, he tucks the thing away in the inner breast pocket of his tunic - and hands Ivan the captured nerve disruptor. "Ah—you want to keep this?"
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
"Ah, yes," says Ivan, and he accepts the weapon, satisfied by this piratical distribution of their captured objects.
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
After a few more minutes, which Miles spends lost in thought, station traffic control provides new docking coordinates - directing them to a pod pocket two spaces over from their original docking site. The pilot tucks the pod into its new home; the hatch opens without incident; Miles once again waits for Ivan to go first.
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
Ivan... hesitates, but goes along the flex tube when it is presented.
The receiving chamber is just like the last one, maybe better maintained - certainly more populated. There are five Barrayarans in it, Lord Vorob'yev in House wine-red and black flanked by four guards in undress greens; and two Cetagandan stationers.
The receiving chamber is just like the last one, maybe better maintained - certainly more populated. There are five Barrayarans in it, Lord Vorob'yev in House wine-red and black flanked by four guards in undress greens; and two Cetagandan stationers.
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
That's... not what Miles was expecting.
Still, when has he ever let that stop him?
"Good afternoon, Lord Vorob'yev," he says to the ambassador, offering him a sealed diplomatic disk. "My father sends you his personal regards, and these messages."
One of the station officials notes something down on his report panel - probably the transfer of the disk, since the transfer of Aral Vorkosigan's personal regards is unlikely to merit a mention on a customs form. Although with Cetagandans, you never know.
"Six items of luggage?" the same stationer asks, inclining his head at the stack of them as the pod pilot finishes piling them up on the float pallet provided for this purpose. The pilot, with this last task complete, salutes Miles and disappears back into his ship. Miles verifies at a quick glance that the stack contains both of his luggage cases and all four of Ivan's.
Still, when has he ever let that stop him?
"Good afternoon, Lord Vorob'yev," he says to the ambassador, offering him a sealed diplomatic disk. "My father sends you his personal regards, and these messages."
One of the station officials notes something down on his report panel - probably the transfer of the disk, since the transfer of Aral Vorkosigan's personal regards is unlikely to merit a mention on a customs form. Although with Cetagandans, you never know.
"Six items of luggage?" the same stationer asks, inclining his head at the stack of them as the pod pilot finishes piling them up on the float pallet provided for this purpose. The pilot, with this last task complete, salutes Miles and disappears back into his ship. Miles verifies at a quick glance that the stack contains both of his luggage cases and all four of Ivan's.
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
"Yes, that's all," agrees Ivan as blandly as he can with a nerve disruptor in his pocket.
The luggage is trundled away.
"Will we get it all back?" Ivan wonders.
The luggage is trundled away.
"Will we get it all back?" Ivan wonders.
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
Miles observes that no one else here seems to be able to read the loudly flashing signage in Ivan's manner and posture. That's convenient.
"Eventually," says Vorob'yev, signalling two of his guards to accompany the luggage as the first Cetagandan bears it away. "After some delays, if things run true to form. Did you gentlemen have a good trip?"
"Entirely uneventful," Miles says swiftly, heading off any possible attempt by Ivan to interject extraneous truths into the conversation. "Until we got here. Is this a usual docking port for Barrayaran visitors, or were we redirected for some other reason?"
The remaining Cetagandan produces no detectable response to this question, and Miles is certainly detecting as hard as he can. Hmm. Inconclusive.
"Sending us through the service entrance is just a little game the Cetagandans play with us, to reaffirm our status," says Vorob'yev with a thin smile. "You are correct, it is a studied insult, designed to distract our minds. I stopped allowing it to distract me some years ago, and I recommend you do the same."
No response from the Cetagandan to this frank speech, either. Miles conceives of the hypothesis that these expressionless fellows are meant to act and be treated like mobile statuary, since that is approximately how Vorob'yev seems to think of the man and he certainly isn't offering any evidence to the contrary - in which case, a reaction would be very telling, but the absence of one is virtually meaningless.
"Thank you, sir. I'll take your advice," he says. "Uh... were you delayed too? We were. They cleared us to dock once and then sent us back out to cool."
"The runaround today seems particularly ornate. Consider yourselves honoured, my lords," says Vorob'yev. He turns to lead them out of the freight bay with a smooth, "Come this way, please."
"Eventually," says Vorob'yev, signalling two of his guards to accompany the luggage as the first Cetagandan bears it away. "After some delays, if things run true to form. Did you gentlemen have a good trip?"
"Entirely uneventful," Miles says swiftly, heading off any possible attempt by Ivan to interject extraneous truths into the conversation. "Until we got here. Is this a usual docking port for Barrayaran visitors, or were we redirected for some other reason?"
The remaining Cetagandan produces no detectable response to this question, and Miles is certainly detecting as hard as he can. Hmm. Inconclusive.
"Sending us through the service entrance is just a little game the Cetagandans play with us, to reaffirm our status," says Vorob'yev with a thin smile. "You are correct, it is a studied insult, designed to distract our minds. I stopped allowing it to distract me some years ago, and I recommend you do the same."
No response from the Cetagandan to this frank speech, either. Miles conceives of the hypothesis that these expressionless fellows are meant to act and be treated like mobile statuary, since that is approximately how Vorob'yev seems to think of the man and he certainly isn't offering any evidence to the contrary - in which case, a reaction would be very telling, but the absence of one is virtually meaningless.
"Thank you, sir. I'll take your advice," he says. "Uh... were you delayed too? We were. They cleared us to dock once and then sent us back out to cool."
"The runaround today seems particularly ornate. Consider yourselves honoured, my lords," says Vorob'yev. He turns to lead them out of the freight bay with a smooth, "Come this way, please."
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
Miles, what the hell? But Ivan doesn't say anything, because Miles is probably attempting to walk some kind of elaborate invisible tightrope and Ivan doesn't relish having to explain it to the-count-his-father or the-Cordelia-his-mother if something happens to the balancing act and it's Ivan's fault. He just gives Miles a sort of pleading look and on they go to the embassy's planetary shuttle.
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
Miles returns him a slight shake of the head - at this point, it is most prudent to wait. Or at least, most informative...
Onward they go, the five Barrayarans - Miles, Ivan, two guards, and Vorob'yev - trailing the Cetagandan stationer like four green ducklings and a wine-and-black cygnet all in line behind the mauve-and-grey mama duck.
The Barrayaran embassy's local planetary shuttle is docked at a proper passenger lock with a VIP lounge, none of this freight bay business; the Cetagandan stationer deposits them there and leaves. A guard serves drinks at the comfortably seated lounge table - Vorob'yev chooses the wine and Miles politely accepts some, although he sips as minimally as etiquette will allow and pays equally minimal attention to the ensuing small talk.
Onward they go, the five Barrayarans - Miles, Ivan, two guards, and Vorob'yev - trailing the Cetagandan stationer like four green ducklings and a wine-and-black cygnet all in line behind the mauve-and-grey mama duck.
The Barrayaran embassy's local planetary shuttle is docked at a proper passenger lock with a VIP lounge, none of this freight bay business; the Cetagandan stationer deposits them there and leaves. A guard serves drinks at the comfortably seated lounge table - Vorob'yev chooses the wine and Miles politely accepts some, although he sips as minimally as etiquette will allow and pays equally minimal attention to the ensuing small talk.
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
Ivan supplies small talk. He drinks wine. He shoots Miles pointed looks when Vorob'yev isn't looking directly at them.
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
He ignores them all, thoroughly occupied with his meditations on the subject of Cetagandan security.
Why has no one come calling - even if not to meet them at the gate, then at least on the way here, or while they sit and drink and chat - to ask them sternly worded questions and demand the return of their captured goods?
Possibility one: A setup of some kind; even as Miles waits for the Cetagandans to pounce, they are waiting for him to - what? He's not sure, but Cetagandans being Cetagandans, this scenario seems likely.
Possibility two: A matter of timing. The fugitive is not yet captured, or if captured not yet interrogated, or if interrogated not yet subjected to any line of questioning that would lead him to mention his Barrayaran surprise. If indeed he is a fugitive at all. If indeed anyone knew he was there... Miles gazes contemplatively into his wine, and has a mouthful so as to make at least a pretense of keeping up with the other two.
Just as Vorob'yev finishes his glass - a matter of experienced planning on his part, Miles judges - their luggage arrives with its escort. Vorob'yev departs the table to see it stowed in the shuttle. Miles braces mentally for incoming Ivan, now that the two of them are alone and relatively unobserved.
Why has no one come calling - even if not to meet them at the gate, then at least on the way here, or while they sit and drink and chat - to ask them sternly worded questions and demand the return of their captured goods?
Possibility one: A setup of some kind; even as Miles waits for the Cetagandans to pounce, they are waiting for him to - what? He's not sure, but Cetagandans being Cetagandans, this scenario seems likely.
Possibility two: A matter of timing. The fugitive is not yet captured, or if captured not yet interrogated, or if interrogated not yet subjected to any line of questioning that would lead him to mention his Barrayaran surprise. If indeed he is a fugitive at all. If indeed anyone knew he was there... Miles gazes contemplatively into his wine, and has a mouthful so as to make at least a pretense of keeping up with the other two.
Just as Vorob'yev finishes his glass - a matter of experienced planning on his part, Miles judges - their luggage arrives with its escort. Vorob'yev departs the table to see it stowed in the shuttle. Miles braces mentally for incoming Ivan, now that the two of them are alone and relatively unobserved.
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
And indeed:
"Aren't you going to tell him about it?" pleads Ivan.
"Aren't you going to tell him about it?" pleads Ivan.
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
"Not yet," mutters Miles.
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
"Why not?"
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
"Are you in such a hurry to lose that nerve disruptor?" he inquires. "The embassy'd take it away from you as fast as the Cetagandans, I bet."
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
Ivan will not be baited. Right this minute. "Screw that. What are you up to?"
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
"I'm... not sure," he admits. "Yet."
He meant to be up to just the sort of thing that plays to his natural talents - verbal fencing with miscellaneous authority figures, the Cetagandans trying to extract the day's prizes from him while he in turn tries to extract from them whatever information he can get them to deliberately or inadvertently divulge, on this or other topics. He considers it hardly his fault that the Cetagandans are inexplicably failing to come after him in the first place.
He meant to be up to just the sort of thing that plays to his natural talents - verbal fencing with miscellaneous authority figures, the Cetagandans trying to extract the day's prizes from him while he in turn tries to extract from them whatever information he can get them to deliberately or inadvertently divulge, on this or other topics. He considers it hardly his fault that the Cetagandans are inexplicably failing to come after him in the first place.
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
"We've got to at least report this to the embassy's military attaché."
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
"Report it, yes. But not to the attaché," says Miles. "Illyan told me that if I had any problems—meaning, of the sort our department concerns itself with—I was to go to Lord Vorreedi. He's listed as a protocol officer, but he's really an ImpSec colonel and chief of ImpSec here."
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
"The Cetagandans don't know?"
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
And pictured in Fig. 1, we have the reason Ivan does not work for ImpSec...
"Of course they know. Just like we know who's really who at the Cetagandan embassy in Vorbarr Sultana. It's a polite legal fiction. Don't worry, I'll see to it."
Not without considerable regret, because of course Vorreedi isn't going to share any results with a mere unnoteworthy courier whose family happens to be important, and of course Miles can't breathe a word of his actual accomplishments to sway that decision because all the good ones are staggeringly classified.
"Of course they know. Just like we know who's really who at the Cetagandan embassy in Vorbarr Sultana. It's a polite legal fiction. Don't worry, I'll see to it."
Not without considerable regret, because of course Vorreedi isn't going to share any results with a mere unnoteworthy courier whose family happens to be important, and of course Miles can't breathe a word of his actual accomplishments to sway that decision because all the good ones are staggeringly classified.
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
Ivan sighs and gives up for the moment.
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
Not a moment too soon, because there's Vorob'yev, here to affirm the integrity of their luggage and get them strapped into their shuttle seats for departure.
"And that's that, my lords. Nothing taken from your possessions, nothing added. Welcome to Eta Ceta Four. There are no official ceremonies requiring your presence today, but if you're not too tired from your journey, the Marilacan Embassy is hosting an informal reception tonight for the legation committee and all its august visitors. I recommend it to your attention."
"Recommend?" says Miles alertly. Anyone who has done as good a job as Vorob'yev at something as delicate as ambassador to Cetaganda has, in Miles's view, a recommendation of exceptional weight.
"You'll be seeing a lot of these people over the next two weeks. It should provide a useful orientation," Vorob'yev elaborates.
"And that's that, my lords. Nothing taken from your possessions, nothing added. Welcome to Eta Ceta Four. There are no official ceremonies requiring your presence today, but if you're not too tired from your journey, the Marilacan Embassy is hosting an informal reception tonight for the legation committee and all its august visitors. I recommend it to your attention."
"Recommend?" says Miles alertly. Anyone who has done as good a job as Vorob'yev at something as delicate as ambassador to Cetaganda has, in Miles's view, a recommendation of exceptional weight.
"You'll be seeing a lot of these people over the next two weeks. It should provide a useful orientation," Vorob'yev elaborates.
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
"What should we wear?" inquires Ivan brightly.
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
"Undress greens, please," says Vorob'yev. "Clothing is a cultural language everywhere, to be sure, but here it's practically a secret code. It is difficult enough to move among the ghem-lords without committing some defined error, and among the haut-lords it's nearly impossible. Uniforms are always correct, or, if not exactly correct, clearly not the wearer's fault, since he has no choice. I'll have my protocol office give you a list of which uniforms you are to wear at each event."
Miles is very pleased with this development. No fussing around with outfits, just a nice tidy list, consisting wholly of things he's absolutely certain to have brought. Given the proportions of their respective luggage, though, he suspects Ivan may have a different outlook.
Miles is very pleased with this development. No fussing around with outfits, just a nice tidy list, consisting wholly of things he's absolutely certain to have brought. Given the proportions of their respective luggage, though, he suspects Ivan may have a different outlook.
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
Ivan does. Uniforms. Meh.
Miles Naismith Vorkosigan
thisvorlunatic
The shuttle makes undocking noises, much fainter than those of the smaller personnel pod, and proceeds away from the station without a peep from Cetagandan security.
So. Since he strongly doubts that the Cetagandan authorities would extend their subtle head games into allowing the Barrayarans to depart their customs station carrying stolen lethal weaponry, Miles can rule out all scenarios in which the fugitive has been caught and the tale of their adventure extracted from him. This leaves not caught at all, or caught and badly mishandled, his movements left untraced, his vandalism of the freight bay's vid pickups undetected. Of those two, the first is likelier. Therefore, the only people who know about their encounter are Miles, Ivan, their pod pilot - who has very ostentatiously washed his hands of the whole business and won't be setting foot dirtside anyway - and the fugitive himself.
Therefore, if the mystery man wants his widget back, he'll have to find Miles. Which should not be at all difficult. And then... well, whatever happens, it's bound to be interesting. A practical exercise suitable for a fresh young intelligence officer looking to deemphasize the 'fresh'. He wonders if there might not be some way to coax Vorreedi into giving him a crack at the puzzle.
So. Since he strongly doubts that the Cetagandan authorities would extend their subtle head games into allowing the Barrayarans to depart their customs station carrying stolen lethal weaponry, Miles can rule out all scenarios in which the fugitive has been caught and the tale of their adventure extracted from him. This leaves not caught at all, or caught and badly mishandled, his movements left untraced, his vandalism of the freight bay's vid pickups undetected. Of those two, the first is likelier. Therefore, the only people who know about their encounter are Miles, Ivan, their pod pilot - who has very ostentatiously washed his hands of the whole business and won't be setting foot dirtside anyway - and the fugitive himself.
Therefore, if the mystery man wants his widget back, he'll have to find Miles. Which should not be at all difficult. And then... well, whatever happens, it's bound to be interesting. A practical exercise suitable for a fresh young intelligence officer looking to deemphasize the 'fresh'. He wonders if there might not be some way to coax Vorreedi into giving him a crack at the puzzle.
Ivan Xav Vorpatril
middlingalong
Ivan would like to ostentatiously wash his hands of the whole mess, but alas, this is not his privilege today.