“Do you have a favored explanation yet?” inquired Gregor.
Galeni shook his head. “The most interesting question of history is always, What were these people thinking? But I’m afraid it’s often also the most elusive. Unless some new documentation surfaces in my searches, that’s as far as I can honestly take the tale.”
“Very good,” said Gregor, meaning, probably, a slightly disappointed Very well. “And Abelard? I should mention, in a personal communication I received from the Viceroy of Sergyar last night, Aral says he doesn’t remember ever ordering anyone to blow up Vordarian’s ImpSec building. Such a decision ought to have made it up to his level, he said, but, in the confusion of the times, it’s perfectly possible it didn’t. And, ah, a few other remarks about excessive initiative in subordinates, but they’re not pertinent here.”
Galeni had come alert, but now his shoulders slumped slightly. “I was hoping he could clarify-oh, well. At least we know it couldn’t have been ordered by Negri against Vordarian, because Negri was dead on the first day.”
Illyan cleared his throat, and spoke up. “Actually, some such beyond-the-grave sleeper order from Chief Negri would have been perfectly possible. Back then.” His hand and Lady Alys’s found each other, down between their seats.
Galeni appeared to suffer a brief pang from having what might have been his only certainty plucked from him. “Ah. Well. In that case. Abelard had an exemplary record prior to the Pretendership. That…gets us no forwarder, because it’s quite clear that many officers and men at the time did honestly think Vordarian might be the best thing for Barrayar.”
“Hence Regent Vorkosigan’s generous pardons, after,” Gregor put in.
Galeni nodded warily. “Abelard was a senior guard on ImpSec HQ itself; he certainly knew the territory he was, er, under. His records break off abruptly at the start of the hostilities, and don’t take up again till after, during the cleanup, when he was finally listed as missing. Missing, period, mind you-neither ‘in action’ nor ‘absent without leave.’ He’s certainly not accused of desertion. At this point, I would want to turn his remains and those of his equipment over to a forensic pathologist, to look for any other physical clues-the nature of the bomb or the construction of the tunnel in which he was found might have helped-but, ah.”
“Indeed,” sighed Gregor, with a less-than-pleased glance at the Arquas assembled.
“Is that pissed?” Tej whispered in Ivan’s ear.
“Not yet,” he whispered back. “Sh.”
“So what’s your best guess?” said Gregor. “As a former ImpSec analyst.”
Galeni suppressed a pained look. Ivan wondered if he was reciting, Accuracy, brevity, clarity to himself, possibly with an added, pick the best two out of three. “My feeling ”-and his emphasis suggested his low opinion of that word-“was that he was probably one of the many men cut off from their units, who re-sorted themselves as they could find each other, and prosecuted the war as best they could on their own. That still doesn’t prove for which side. Given more time, my next suggested direction of inquiry would be to send field agents to locate as many of his old mates still alive as we could, and interview them.”
Ivan glanced back at Allegre; his slight wince suggested he was praying, Please Gregor, not this week.
Gregor may have heard that prayer; in any case, he went on. “And how is emptying the bunker coming along?”
Pidge shot to her feet. “May I note a point of purely Barrayaran law. Your, er…sir.” She’d at least retained Ivan’s hasty instruction, No, don’t call him sire; he’s not your liege-lord, so he’s not your sire. In any case, Gregor granted her a curt nod. She went on, “Barrayaran law supports the claim of a ten-percent finder’s fee for lost items, including historical artifacts confiscated by District or the Imperial governments.”
“Hell, Pidge, that’s meant for lost wallets,” muttered Ivan, under his breath. He thought only Tej heard him, by the squeeze on his arm, but Pidge glanced his way in irritation before she went on more firmly.
“House Cordonah, jointly, wishes to put in such a claim upon the contents of Lady ghem Estif’s old workplace. Because without us, it would never have been found.”
“At this time,” said Illyan, not quite in an undervoice.
“Intact,” countered Pidge. “Given yet more time, who knows who else might have found and raided it before you people ever got around to looking?”
Gregor held up a palm. “I am aware of the precedent, Baronette. We will return to the point later.”
Collective or Imperial We? In any case, Pidge, in a moment of blessed acumen, nodded and sat down.
Gregor said, “Continue, please, Commodore.”
Galeni gave a short nod. “I’ve placed Professora Helen Vorthys and her picked team of conservators in charge of all papers, documents, and data devices, the last of which we cleared out yesterday and sent to a secured location at the Imperial University. Sorting and preservation has only just started.”
Gregor waved a hand, And…?
“Our best guess of the value of the rest of the items inventoried and removed so far-as of this morning; I checked on the way here-is”-Galeni cleared his throat, unaccountably dry-“three point nine billion marks.”
Make that accountably dry, Ivan corrected his observation. Gregor, who had hitched himself up on the edge of the comconsole table, nearly fell off it. Shiv Arqua rubbed his forehead, his face screwing up like a man suffering from the sharpest twinge of existential pain in history.
“Almost four billion marks, Duv?” choked Gregor. “Really?”
“So far. We hope to have cleared the upper floor by the end of the week. I have absolutely no idea what we’ll find on the lower one.”
“More of the same, as I recall,” murmured Lady ghem Estif.
Silence fell throughout the room, as everyone present paused for a bit of simple arithmetic.
“I would note in passing,” observed Duv, recovering his driest professorial tones, “that the current value of the art and artifacts is very much higher that the, what one might call street value, would have been a hundred years ago. Appreciation, in both senses. Yet quite a number of people must have known what was in there, because it certainly took more than one man to fill it up. I really have no idea why no Cetagandan entrepreneur has been back since.”
Lady ghem Estif gave a muffled sniff, dulcetly, and waited.
Gregor opened his hand to her, a bit ironically. “Enlighten us, milady, if you please.”
“Because most of the items were the property of the ruling ghem-junta, and most of the ghem-junta were executed upon their return to Eta Ceta,” said Lady ghem Estif. She added, “They had planned to be back in person, of course.”
Ivan had no idea if it was the historian or the security analyst ascendant in his hungry tones, but Duv said, “I do hope you’ll have time to chat with me later, Lady ghem Estif.”
She held up her own hands, palm out, in a gesture that had little to do with surrender. “That will not be up to me.”
“Thank you, Commodore Galeni, that will do for now,” said Gregor. “Colonel Otto, do you have a, perhaps, fuller and more detailed account than your preliminary one of why my Imperial Security building is now largely an underground installation? From a technical perspective.”
Since Ivan recalled, among the cries coming from the command post the other day, some anguished engineering bellows of It sank! It sank! The sucker just sank! he suspected Otto did.
Galeni stood down and Otto came up.
“Sire.” His nod to Gregor was very respectful; his glower at the Arquas, not. “We’re still modifying details of our picture as new data come in, but I think what I have here is a correct general outline.” He shoved a data chip into the read-slot on the comconsole table; a large-scale, three-dimensional image in outlines of colored light sprang into view above the vid plate.
Otto gestured with a lightstick. “Ground-lines in dark brown, surrounding buildings in light brown. ImpSec building in green.” All six floors and the several subbasements, a boxy cage of cold-light-hued lines. “The bunker.” Another short stack of boxes in blue, cattycorner to the one in green. “The old storm sewer.” A translucent tube of red light, running at a diagonal far under the street. “We suspect Sergeant Abelard’s old tunnel might have had its start-point from the storm sewer, by the way. It’s possible that a patch there might have provided a weak point”-a darker red blob, with uncertain dotted outlines-“that blew out when the bomb”-an ominous purple pinpoint, accurately placed as far as Ivan could tell-“went off.”
“As much of the remaining Mycoborer tunnels as we could map.” Starting as a solid yellow tube descending
