“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?”

“In my cabin on the Prince Xav . The nice young yeoman is getting ready to help carry my things to the shuttle. Yes, thank you, that too . . .”

“Right. I've just about cracked us loose from Quaddiespace. Greenlaw was reasonable, or at least, too exhausted to argue any more.”

“She has all my sympathy. I don't think I have a functional nerve left, right now.”

“Don't need your nerves, just your usual grace. The moment you can get to a comconsole, call up Garnet Five. I want to appoint that heroic young idiot Corbeau to be Barrayaran consul here, and make him clean up all this mess I have to leave in my wake. It's only fair; he certainly helped create it. Gregordid specifically ask that I assure that Barrayaran ships could dock here again someday. The boy is wobbling, however. So pitch it to Garnet Five, and make sure that she makes sure Corbeau says yes.”

“Oh! What a splendid idea, love. They would make a good team, I think.”

“Yep. Her for beauty, and um . . . her for brains.”

“And him for courage, surely. I think it might work out. I must think what to send them for a wedding present, to convey my personal thanks.”

“Partnering present? I don't know, ask Nicol. Oh. Speaking of Nicol.” Miles glanced aside at the sheeted figure in the next bunk. Crucial message delivered, Thorne had fallen back into what Miles hoped was sleep and not incipient coma. “I'm thinking that Bel really ought to have someone to ride along and take care of it. Or of things for it. Some kind of support trooper, anyway. I expect the Star Cr?che will have a fix for their own weapon—they'd have to, lab accidents, after all.” If we get there in time . “But this looks like something that's going to involve a certain amount of really unpleasant convalescence. I'm not exactly looking forward to it myself.” But consider the alternative . . . ”Ask her if she's willing. She could ride in the Kestrel with you, be some company, anyway.” And if neither he nor Bel got out of this alive, mutual support.

“Certainly. I'll call her from here.”

“Call me again when you're safe aboard the Kestrel , love.” Often and often .

“Of course.” Her voice hesitated. “Love you. Get some rest. You sound like you need it. Your voice has that down-in-a-well sound it gets when . . . There will be time.” Determination flashed through her own audible fatigue.