“And me,” put in Ekaterin's voice firmly from offsides. Her face leaned briefly into range of Vorpatril's vid pickup, and she frowned at him. She'd seen her husband looking like death on a plate more than once before, though; perhaps she wouldn't be as disturbed as the admiral clearly was. Having an Imperial Auditor get melted to steaming slime on his watch would be a notable black mark, not that Vorpatril's career wasn't in a shambles over this episode already.
“My courier ship will travel in convoy, carrying Lady Vorkosigan.” He cut across Ekaterin's beginning objection: “I may well need one spokesperson along who isn't in medical quarantine.”
She settled back with a dubious “Hm.”
“But I want to make damned sure we're not impeded by any hassles along the way, Admiral, so have your fleet department start working immediately on our passage clearances in all the local space polities we're going to have to cross. Speed. Speed is of the essence. I want to get away the moment we're sure the ba's devil-device has been cleared from Graf Station. At least with us carrying all these biohazards, no one is going to want to stop and board us for inspections.”
“To Komarr, my lord? Or Sergyar?”
“No. Calculate the shortest possible jump route directly to Rho Ceta.”
Vorpatril's head jerked back in startlement. “If the orders I received from Sector Five HQ mean what we think, you'll hardly get passage there . Reception by plasma fire and fusion shells the moment you pop out of the wormhole, would be what I'd expect.”
“Unpack , Miles,” Ekaterin's voice drifted in.
He grinned briefly at the familiar exasperation in her voice. “By the time we arrive there, I will have arranged our clearances with the Cetagandan Empire.” I hope . Or else they were all going to be in more trouble than Miles ever wanted to imagine. “Barrayar is bringing their kidnapped haut babies back to them. On the end of a long stick. I get to be the stick.”
“Ah,” said Vorpatril, his gray brows rising in speculation.
“Give a head's-up to my ImpSec courier pilot. I plan to start the moment we have everyone and everything transferred aboard. You can start on the everything part now.”
“Understood, my lord.” Vorpatril rose and vanished out of vid range. Ekaterin moved back in, and smiled at him.
“Well, we're making some progress at last,” Miles said to her, with what he hoped seemed good cheer, and not suppressed hysteria.
Her smile twisted up on one side. Her eyes were warm, though. “Some progress? What do you call an avalanche, I wonder?”
“No arctic metaphors, please. I'm cold enough. If the medicos get this . . . infestation under control en route, perhaps they'll clear me for visitors. We'll want the courier ship later, anyway.”
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.”