the Barrayaran-in-the-street much of anything, at least until major rioting raised the volume to a level no one dared ignore.
“How would you analyze Kareen’s reaction?” Aral asked Cordelia.
Cordelia’s brows rose. “What reaction? How, analyze? She never said a word!”
“Just so. Does she looked drugged to you? Or under compulsion? Or was that real assent? Is she duped by Vordarian’s propaganda, or what?” Frustrated, Vorkosigan eyed the space where the woman’s image had lately been. “She’s always been reserved, but that was the most unreadable performance I’ve ever seen.”
“Run it again, Kou,” said Cordelia. She had him stop at the best views of Kareen. She studied the frozen face, scarcely less animate than when the holo was running.
“She doesn’t look woozy or sedated. And her eyes don’t look aside the way the Speakers did.”
“Nobody threatening her with a weapon?” Vortala guessed.
“Or perhaps she simply doesn’t care,” Cordelia suggested grimly.
“Assent, or compulsion?” Vorkosigan repeated.
“Maybe neither. She’s been dealing with this sort of nonsense all her adult life … what do you expect of her? She survived three years of marriage with Serg, before Ezar sheltered her. She must be a bona fide expert in guessing what not to say and when not to say it.”
“But to publicly submit to Vordarian—if she thinks he’s responsible for Gregor’s death …”
“Yes, what does she believe? If she truly thinks her son is dead—even if she doesn’t believe you killed him—then all she has left to look out for is her own survival. Why risk that survival for some dramatic futility, if it won’t help Gregor? What does she owe you, owe us, after all? We’ve all failed her, as far as she knows.”
Vorkosigan winced.
Cordelia went on, “Vordarian’s been controlling her access to information, surely. She may even be convinced he’s winning. She’s a survivor; she’s survived Serg and Ezar, so far. Maybe she means to survive you and Vordarian both. Maybe the only revenge she thinks she’ll ever get is to live long enough to spit on all your graves.”
One of the staff officers muttered, “But she’s Vor. She should have defied him.”
Cordelia favored him with a glittery grin. “Oh, but you never know what any Barrayaran woman thinks by what she says in front of Barrayaran men. Honesty is not exactly rewarded, you know.”
The staffer gave her an unsettled look. Drou smiled sourly. Vorkosigan blew out his breath. Koudelka blinked.
“So, Vordarian gets tired of waiting and appoints himself Regent,” Vortala murmured.
“And Prime Minister,” Vorkosigan pointed out in return.
“Indeed, he swells.”
“Why not go straight for the Imperium?” asked the staff officer.
“Testing the waters,” said Kanzian.
“It’s coming, later in the script,” opined Vortala.
“Or maybe sooner, if we force his hand a bit,” suggested Kanzian. “The last and fatal step. We must consider how to rattle him just a little more.”
“Not much longer,” Vorkosigan said firmly.
The ghostly mask of Kareen’s face hung before Cordelia’s mind’s eye all that day, and returned at her waking the next morning. What did Kareen think? What did Kareen feel, for that matter? Perhaps she was as numb as the evidence suggested. Perhaps she was biding her time. Perhaps she was all for Vordarian. If I knew what she believed, I’d know what she was doing. If I knew what she was doing, I’d know what she believed.
Too many unknowns in this equation. If I were Kareen … Was this a valid analogy? Could Cordelia reason from herself to another? Could anyone? They had likenesses, Kareen and herself, both women, near in age, mothers of endangered sons… . Cordelia took Gregor’s shoe from her meager pile of mountain souvenirs, and turned it in her hand. Mama grabbed me back, but my shoe came off in her hand. I should have fastened it tighter… . Maybe she should trust her own judgment. Maybe she knew exactly what Kareen was thinking.
When the comconsole chimed, close to the time of yesterday’s call, Cordelia shot to answer it. A new broadcast from the capital, new evidence, something to break that circle of unreason? But the face that materialized over the vidplate was not Koudelka, but a stranger with Intelligence insignia on his collar.
“Lady Vorkosigan?” he began deferentially.
“Yes?”
“I’m Major Sircoj, duty—officer at the main portal. It’s my job to screen everyone new reporting in, men who’ve left traitor-units and so on, and to collect any new intelligence they’ve brought with them. We had a man turn up half an hour ago who says he escaped the capital, who refuses to voluntarily debrief. We’ve confirmed his claim that he’s had anti-nterrogation conditioning—if we try to fast-penta him, it’ll kill him. He keeps asking— actually, insisting—to speak with you. He could be an assassin.”
Cordelia’s heart pounded. She leaned into the holovid as if she might climb through it. “Did he bring anything with him?” she demanded breathlessly. “Like a canister, about half a meter high—lots of blinking lights, and big red letters on top that say This End Up? Looks mysterious as hell, guaranteed to send any security guard into fits—his name, Major!”
“He brought nothing but the clothes he’s standing in. He’s not in good shape. His name is Vaagen, Captain Vaagen.”
“I’ll be right there.”
“No, Milady! The man is practically raving. Could be dangerous, I can’t let you—”
She left him talking to an empty room. Droushnakovi had to break into a run to catch up with her. Cordelia made it to the main portal Security offices in less than seven minutes, and paused in the corridor to catch her breath. To catch her soul, that wanted to fly out her mouth. Calm. Calm. Raving apparently cut no ice with Sircoj.
She lifted her chin and entered the office. “Tell Major Sircoj that Lady Vorkosigan is here to see him,” she told the clerk, who raised impressed brows and obediently bent to his comconsole.
Sircoj appeared in a few endless minutes—through that door, Cordelia mentally marked his route. “I must see Captain Vaagen.”
“Milady, he could be dangerous,” Sircoj began exactly where she’d cut him off before. “He could be programmed in some unexpected way.”
Cordelia considered unexpectedly grabbing Sircoj by the throat and attempting to squeeze reason into him. Impractical. She took a deep breath. “What will you let me do? Can I at least see him on vid?”
Sircoj looked thoughtful. “That might be all right. A cross-check on our identification, and we can record. Very well.”
He took her into another room, and keyed up a monitor viewer. Her breath blew out with a small moan.
Vaagen was alone in a holding room, pacing from wall to wall. He wore green uniform trousers and a brown-stained white shirt. He was terribly changed from the trim and energetic scientist she’d last seen in his lab at Imp Mil. Both his eyes were ringed with red-purple blotches, one lid swollen nearly shut; the slit glowed a frightening blood-scarlet. He moved bent-over. Bathless, sleepless, swollen lips …
“You get a medtech for that man!” Cordelia realized she’d yelled when Sircoj jumped.
“He’s been triaged. His condition is not life—threatening. We can start treating him just as soon as he’s security-cleared,” said Sircoj doggedly.
“Then you put him on-line with me,” Cordelia said through set teeth. “Drou, go back to the office, call Aral. Tell him what’s going on.”
Sircoj looked worried at this, but stuck valiantly to his procedures. More endless seconds, while someone went back to the prison-area and took Vaagen to a comconsole.
His face came up over the plate at last; Cordelia could see her own face reflected in the passionate intensity in his. Connected at last.
“Vaagen! What happened?”
“Milady!” His hands clenched, trembling, as he leaned on them toward the vid pickup. “The idiots, the morons, the ignorant, stupid—” he sputtered into helpless obscenities, then caught his breath and began again, quickly, concisely, as if her image might be snatched away again at any moment.
