Lois Bujold - Diplomatic Immunity

“How hard—or easy—is it for a downsider to disappear in Quaddiespace?”

“If I may answer that,” Bel Thorne broke in smoothly, “as that incident impinges on my department.”

Greenlaw motioned assent with a lower hand, while simultaneously rubbing the bridge of her nose with an upper.

“Boarding to and from galactic ships here is fully controlled, not only from Graf Station, but from our other nexus trade depots as well. It is, if not impossible, at least difficult to pass through customs and immigration areas without leaving some sort of record, including general vid monitors of the areas. Your Lieutenant Solian does not show up anywhere in our computer or visual records for that day.”

“Truly?” Miles gave Bel a look, Is this the straight story?

Bel returned a brief nod, Yes . “Truly. Now, in-system travel is much less strictly controlled. It is more . . . feasible, for someone to pass out of Graf Station to another Union habitat without notice. If that person is a quaddie. Any downsider, however, would stand out in the crowd. Standard missing-person procedures were followed in this case, including notifications of other habitat security departments. Solian has simply not been seen, on Graf Station or any other Union habitat.”

“How do you account for his blood in the loading bay?”

“The loading bay is on the outboard side of the station access control points. It is my opinion that whoever created that scene came from and returned to one of the ships in that docks-and-locks sector.”

Miles silently noted Bel's word choice, whoever created that scene , not whoever murdered Solian . Of course, Bel had been present at a certain spectacular emergency cryo-prep, too. . . .

Venn put in irritably, “All of which were ships from your fleet, at the time. In other words, you brought your own troubles with you. We are a peaceful people here!”

Miles frowned thoughtfully at Bel, and mentally reshuffled his plan of attack. “Is the loading bay in question very far from here?”

“It's on the other side of the station,” said Watts.

“I think I would like to see it, and its associated areas, first, before I interview Ensign Corbeau and the other Barrayarans. Perhaps Portmaster Thorne would be so good as to conduct me on a tour of the facility?”

Bel glanced at Boss Watts and got an approving low sign.

“I should be very pleased to do so, Lord Vorkosigan,” said Bel.

“Next, perhaps? We could take my ship around.”

“That would be very efficient, yes,” replied Bel, eyes brightening with appreciation. “I could accompany you.”

“Thank you.” Good catch. “That would be most satisfactory.”

Wild as Miles now was to get away and shake Bel down in private, he had to smile his way through further formalities, including the official presentation of the list of charges, costs, fines, and punitive fines Vorpatril's strike force had garnered. He plucked the data disk Boss Watts spun to him delicately out of the air and intoned, “Note, please, I do not accept these charges. I will, however, undertake to review them fully at the earliest possible moment.”

A lot of unsmiling faces greeted this pronouncement. Quaddie body language was a study in its own right. Talking with one's hands was fraught with so many more possibilities, here. Greenlaw's hands were very controlled, both uppers and lowers. Venn clenched his lower fists a lot, but then, Venn had helped carry out his burned comrades after the fire.

The conference drew to an end without achieving anything resembling closure, which Miles counted as a small victory for his side. He was getting away without committing himself or Gregor to anything much, so far. He didn't yet see how to twist this unpromising tangle his way. He needed more data, subliminals, people, some handle or lever he hadn't spotted yet. I need to talk to Bel.

That wish, at least, looked to be granted. At Greenlaw's word, the meeting broke up, and the honor guard escorted the Barrayarans back through the corridors to the bay where the Kestrel waited.

At the Kestrel 's lock, Boss Watts took Bel aside for a low-voiced conversation with some anxious hand waving. Bel shook its head, made calm down gestures, and finally turned to follow Miles, Ekaterin, and Roic through the flex tube and into the Kestrel 's tiny and now crowded personnel hatch deck. Roic stumbled and looked a trifle dizzied, readjusting to the grav field, but then found his balance again. He frowned warily at the Betan hermaphrodite in the quaddie uniform. Ekaterin flashed a covertly curious glance.

“What was that all about?” Miles asked Bel as the airlock door slid shut.

“Watts wanted me to take a bodyguard or three. To protect me from the brutal Barrayarans. I told him there wouldn't be room aboard, and besides, you were a diplomat—not a soldier.” Bel, head cocked, gave him an indecipherable look. “Is that so?”

“It is now. Uh . . .” Miles turned to Lieutenant Smolyani, manning the hatch controls. “Lieutenant, we're going to take the Kestrel around to the other side of Graf Station to another docking cradle. Their traffic control will direct you. Go as slowly as you can without looking odd. Take two or three tries to align with the docking clamps, or something.”

“My lord!” said Smolyani indignantly. ImpSec fast courier pilots made a religion out of fast, tight maneuvering and swift, perfect dockings. “In front of these people?”

“Well, do it however you wish, but buy me some time. I need to talk with this herm. Go, go.” He waved Smolyani out. He drew breath, and added to Roic and Ekaterin, “We'll take over the wardroom. Excuse us, please.” Thus consigning her and Roic to their cramped cabins to wait. He gripped Ekaterin's hand in brief apology. He dared not say more until he'd decanted Bel in private. There were security angles, political angles, personal angles—how many angles could dance on the head of a pin?—and, as the first thrill of seeing that familiar face alive and well wore off, the nagging memory that the last time they'd met, the purpose had been to strip Bel of command and discharge it from the mercenary fleet for its unfortunate role in the bloody Jackson's Whole debacle. He wanted to trust Bel. Dare he?

Roic was too well trained to ask, Are you sure you don't want me to come with you, m'lord? out loud, but from the expression on his face he was doing his best to send it telepathically.

“I'll explain it all later,” Miles promised Roic in an under-voice, and sent him on his way with what he hoped was a reassuring half-salute.

He led Bel the few steps to the tiny chamber that doubled as the Kestrel 's wardroom, dining room, and briefing room, shut both its doors, and activated the security cone. A faint hum from the projector on the ceiling and a shimmer in the air surrounding the wardroom's circular dining/vid conference table assured him it was working. He turned to find Bel watching him, head a little to one side, eyes quizzical, lips quirked. He hesitated a moment. Then, simultaneously, they both burst into laughter. They fell on each other in a hug; Bel pounded him on the back, saying in a tight voice, “Damn, damn, damn, you sawed-off little half-breed maniac . . .”

Miles fell back, breathless. “Bel, by God. You look good.”

“Older, surely?”

“That, too. But I don't think I'm the one to talk.”

“ You look terrific. Healthy. Solid. I take it that woman's been feeding you right? Or doing something right, anyway.”

“Not fat , though?” Miles said anxiously.