suppose—”
“Milady.” He held up a hand; she paused in mid-breath. “Do you remember, back on the front lawn at Vorkosigan Surleau when we were loading Negri’s body into the lightflyer, when my Lord Regent told me to obey your voice as his own?”
Cordelias brows went up. “Yes … ?”
“He never countermanded that order.”
“Sergeant,” she breathed at last, “I’d never have guessed you for a barracks-lawyer.”
His smile grew a millimeter tighter. “Your voice is as the voice of the Emperor himself. Technically.”
“Is it, now,” she whispered in delight. Her nails dug into her palms.
He leaned forward, his hands now held rock-still between his knees. “So, Milady. What were you saying?”
The motor pool staging bay was an echoing low vault, its shadows slashed by the lights from a glass- walled office. Cordelia stood waiting in the darkened lift tube portal, Drou at her shoulder, and watched through the distant rectangle of glass as Bothari negotiated with the transport officer. General Vorkosigan’s Armsman was signing out a vehicle for his oath-lord. The passes and IDs Bothari had been issued apparently worked just fine. The motor pool man fed Bothari’s cards to his computer, took Bothari’s palm print on his sensor-pad, and dispatched orders with snap and hustle.
Would this simple plan work? Cordelia wondered desperately. And if it didn’t, what alternative had they? Their planned route sketched itself in her mind, red light-lines snaking over a map. Not north toward their goal, but due south first, by groundcar into the next loyal District. Ditch the distinctive government vehicle, take the monorail west to yet another District, then northwest to another; then due east into Count Vorinnis’s neutral zone, focus of so much diplomatic attention from both sides. Piotr’s comment echoed in her memory, “I swear, Aral, if Vorinnis doesn’t quit trying to play both ends against the middle, you ought to hang him higher than Vordarian when this is over.” Then into the capital District itself, then, somehow, into the sealed city. A daunting number of kilometers to cover. Three times the distance of the direct route.
So much time. Her heart swung north like a compass needle.
The first and last Districts would be the worst. Aral’s forces could be almost more inimical to this excursion than Vordarian’s. Her head spun with the cumulative impossibility of it all.
Step by step, she told herself firmly. One step at a time. Just get off Tanery Base; that, they could do. Divide the infinite future into five-minute blocks, and take them one by one.
There, the first five minutes down already, and a swift and shining general staff car appeared from underground storage. A small victory, in reward for a little patience and daring. What might great patience and daring yet bring?
Judiciously, Bothari inspected the vehicle, as if in doubt that it was quite fit for his master. The transport officer waited anxiously, and seemed to deflate with relief when the great general’s Armsman, after running his hand over the canopy and frowning at some minute speck of dust, gave it a grudging acceptance. Bothari brought the vehicle around to the lift tube portal and parked it, neatly blocking the office’s view of the entering passengers.
Drou bent to pick up their satchel, packed with a very odd variety of clothing including Bothari’s and Cordelia’s mountain souvenirs, and their thin assortment of weapons. Bothari set the polarization on the rear canopy to mirror-reflection, and raised it.
“Milady!” Lieutenant Koudelka’s anxious voice called from the lift tube entry behind them. “What are you doing?”
Cordelia’s teeth closed on vile words. She converted her savage expression to a light, surprised smile, and turned. “Hello, Kou. What’s up?”
He frowned, looking at her, at Droushnakovi, at the satchel. “I asked first.” He was out of breath; he must have been chasing them down for some minutes, after not finding her in Aral’s quarters. An ill—timed errand.
Cordelia kept her smile fixed, as her mind blinked on a vision of a Security team piling out of the lift tube to arrest her, or at least her plans. “We’re … going into town.”
His lips thinned in skepticism. “Oh? Does the Admiral know? Where’s Illyan’s outer-perimeter team, then?”
“Gone on ahead,” said Cordelia blandly.
The vague plausibility actually raised a flicker of doubt in his eyes. Alas, only for a moment. “Now, wait just a bloody minute—”
“Lieutenant,” Sergeant Bothari interrupted. “Take a look at this.” He gestured toward the rear passenger compartment of the staff car.
Koudelka leaned to look. “What?” he said impatiently.
Cordelia winced as Bothari’s open hand chopped down across the back of Koudelka’s neck, and winced again at the heavy thud of Koudelka’s head hitting the far side of the compartment’s interior after a powerful boost-assist to neck and belt by Bothari. His swordstick clattered to the pavement.
“In.” Bothari’s voice was a strained low growl, accompanied by a quick glance across the bay toward the glass-walled transport office.
Droushnakovi flung the satchel into the compartment and dove in after Koudelka, shoving his long loose limbs out of the way. Cordelia grabbed up the stick and piled in after. Bothari stood back, saluted, closed the mirrored canopy, and entered the driver’s compartment.
They started smoothly. Cordelia had to control irrational panic as Bothari stopped at the first checkpoint. She could see and hear the guards so clearly, it was difficult to remember they saw only the reflections of their own hard eyes. But apparently General Piotr could indeed pass anywhere at will. How pleasant, to be General Piotr. Though in these trying times, probably not even Piotr could have entered Tanery Base without that rear canopy being opened and scanned. The final gate crew that waved them out was busily engaged in just such an inspection of a large incoming convoy of freight haulers. Their timing was just as Cordelia had planned and prayed.
Cordelia and Droushnakovi finally got the sprawling Koudelka straightened up between them. His first alarming flaccidity was passing off. He blinked and moaned. Koudelka’s head, neck, and upper torso were of the few areas of his body not rewired; Cordelia trusted nothing inorganic was broken.
Droushnakovi’s voice was taut with worry. “What’ll we do with him?”
“We can’t dump him out on the road, he’d run back and give the word,” said Cordelia. “Yet if we cinched him to a tree out of sight somewhere, there’s a chance he might not be found … we’d better tie him up, he’s coming around.”
“I can handle him.”
“He’s had enough handling, I’m afraid.”
Droushnakovi managed to immobilize Koudelka’s hands with a twisted scarf from the satchel; she was quite good at clever knots.
“He might prove useful,” mused Cordelia.
“He’ll betray us,” frowned Droushnakovi.
“Maybe not. Not once we’re in enemy territory. Once the only way out is forward.”
Koudelka’s eyes stopped jerking, following some invisible starry blur, and came at last into focus. Both his pupils were still the same size, Cordelia was relieved to note.
“Milady—Cordelia,” he croaked. His hands yanked futilely at the silky bonds. “This is crazy. You’ll run right into Vordarian’s forces. And then Vordarian will have two handles on the Admiral, instead of just one. And you and Bothari know where the Emperor is!”
“Was,” corrected Cordelia. “A week ago. He’s been moved since then, I’m sure. And Aral has demonstrated his capacity to resist Vordarian’s leverage, I think. Don’t underestimate him.”
“Sergeant Bothari!” Koudelka leaned forward, appealing into the intercom. The front canopy was also silvered, now.
“Yes, Lieutenant?” Bothari’s bass monotone returned.
“I order you to turn this vehicle around.”
A slight pause. “I’m not in the Imperial Service anymore, sir. Retired.”
“Piotr didn’t order this! You’re Count Piotr’s man.”
A longer pause; a lower tone. “No. I am Lady Vorkosigan’s dog.”
