Diplomatic Immunity

While this was going forth, Bel returned to Dubauer, waiting quietly by the side of the room with its hands folded, and murmured, “I can personally escort you aboard the Idris to service your cargo as soon as the Lord Auditor is finished here.”

Miles cut short the last crime-theory enthusiast and sent him on his way. “I'm done,” he announced. He glanced at the chrono in his wrist com. Could he catch up with Ekaterin for lunch? It seemed doubtful, by this hour, but on the other hand, she could spend unimaginable amounts of time looking at vegetation, so maybe there was still a chance.

The three exited the conference chamber together and mounted the broad stairs to the spacious lobby. Neither Miles nor, he supposed, Bel ever entered a room without running a visual sweep of every possible vantage for aim, a legacy of years of unpleasant shared learning experiences. Thus it was that they spotted, simultaneously, the figure on the balcony opposite hoisting a strange oblong box onto the railing. Dubauer followed his glance, eyes widening in astonishment.

Miles had a flashing impression of dark eyes in a milky face beneath a mop of brass-blond curls, staring down intently at him. He and Bel, on either side of Dubauer, reached spontaneously and together for the startled Betan's arms and flung themselves forward. Bright bursts from the box chattered with a loud, echoing, tapping noise. Blood spattered from Dubauer's cheek as the herm was yanked along; something like a swarm of angry bees seemed to pass directly over Miles's head. Then they were, all three, sliding on their stomachs to cover behind the wide marble drums holding the flowers. The bees seemed to follow them; pellets of safety glass exploded in all directions, and chips of marble fountained in a wide spray. A vast vibrato filled the room, shook the air, the thunderous thrumming noise sliced with screams and cries.

Miles, trying to raise his head for a quick glance, was crushed down again by Bel diving over the intervening Betan and landing on him in a smothering clutch. He could only hear the aftermath: more yells, the sudden cessation of the hammering, a heavy clunk . A woman's voice sobbed and hiccoughed in the startling silence, then was choked down to a spasmodic gulping. His hand jerked at a soft, cool kiss, but it was only a few last shredded leaves and flower petals sifting gently down out of the air to settle all around them.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Miles said in a muffled voice, “Bel, will you please get off my head?”

There was a brief pause. Then Bel rolled away and, cautiously, sat up, head hunched into collar. “Sorry,” said Bel gruffly. “Thought for a moment there I was about to lose you. Again.”

“Don't apologize.” Miles, his heart still racing and his mouth very dry, pushed up and sat, his back pressed to a now-shorter marble drum. He spread his fingers to touch the cool synthetic stone of the floor. A little beyond the narrow, irregular arc of space shielded by the table pillars, dozens of deep gouges scored the pavement. Something small and bright and brassy rolled past, and Miles's hand reached for it, then sprang back at its branding heat.

The elderly herm, Dubauer, also sat up, hand going to pat its face where blood trickled. Miles's glance took quick inventory: no other hits, apparently. He shifted and drew his Vorkosigan-monogrammed handkerchief from his trouser pocket, folded it, and silently handed it across to the bleeding Betan. Dubauer swallowed, took it, and mopped at the minor wound. It held the pad out a moment to stare at its own blood as if in surprise, then pressed the cloth back to its hairless cheek.

In a way, Miles thought shakily, it was all rather flattering. At least someone figured he was competent and effective enough to be dangerous. Or maybe I'm onto something. I wonder what the hell it is?

Bel placed its hands upon the shattered drum top, peered cautiously over, then slowly pulled itself to its feet. A downsider in the uniform of the hostel staff scurried, a little bent over, around the ex-centerpiece and asked in a choked voice, “Are you people all right?”

“I think so,” said Bel, glancing around. “What was that?”

“It came from the balcony, sir. The, the person up there dropped it over the side and fled. The door guard went after him.”

Bel didn't bother to correct the gender of the honorific, a sure sign of distraction. Miles rose too, and nearly passed out. Still hyperventilating, he crunched around their bulwark through the broken glass pellets, marble chips, half-melted brass slugs, and flower salad. Bel followed in his path. On the far side of the lobby, the oblong box lay on its side, notably dented. They both knelt to stare.

“Automated hot riveter,” said Bel after a moment. “He must have disconnected . . . quite a few safety devices, to make it do that.”

A slight understatement, Miles felt. But it did explain their assailant's uncertain aim. The device had been designed to throw its slugs with vast precision a matter of millimeters, not meters. Still . . . if the would-be assassin had succeeded in framing Miles's head for even a short burst—he glanced again at the shattered marble—no cryo- revival ever invented could have brought him back this time.

Ye gods—what if he hadn't missed? What would Ekaterin have done, this far from home and help, a messily decapitated husband on her hands before her honeymoon trip was even over, with no immediate support but the inexperienced Roic—If they're shooting at me, how much danger is she in?

In belated panic, he slapped his wristcom. “Roic! Roic, answer me!”

It was at least three agonizing seconds before Roic's drawl responded, “My lord?”

“Where are—never mind. Drop whatever you're doing and go at once to Lady Vorkosigan, and stay with her. Get her back aboard—” he clipped off the Kestrel . Would she be safer there? By now, any number of people knew that was where to look for Vorkosigans. Maybe aboard the Prince Xav , standing off a good safe distance from the station, surrounded by troops— Barrayar's finest, God help us all —”Just stay with her, till I call again.”

“My lord, what's happening?”

“Someone just tried to rivet me to the wall. No, don't come here,” he overrode Roic's beginning protest. “The fellow ran off, and anyway, quaddie security is beginning to arrive.” Two uniformed quaddies in floaters were entering the lobby even as he spoke. At a hostel employee's gesticulations, one rose smoothly up over the balcony; the other approached Miles and his party. “I have to deal with these people now. I'm all right. Don't alarm Ekaterin. Don't let her out of your sight. Out.”

He glanced up to see Dubauer unbend from examining a rivet-chewed marble drum, face very strained. The herm, hand still pressed to cheek, was visibly shaken as it walked over to glance at the riveter. Miles rose smoothly to his feet.

“My apologies, honorable herm. I should have warned you never to stand too close to me.”

Dubauer stared at Miles. Its lips parted in momentary bewilderment, then made a small circle, Oh . “I believe you two gentlepersons saved my life. I . . . I'm afraid I didn't see anything. Until that thing—what was it?—hit me.”

Miles bent and picked up a loose rivet, one of hundreds, now cooled. “One of these. Have you stopped bleeding?”

The herm pulled the pad away from its cheek. “Yes, I think so.”

“Here, keep it for a souvenir.” He held out the gleaming brass slug. “Trade you for my handkerchief back.” Ekaterin had embroidered it by hand, for a present.

“Oh—” Dubauer folded the pad over the bloodstain. “Oh, dear. Is it of value? I'll have it cleaned, and return it to you.”

“Not necessary, honorable herm. My batman takes care of such things.”

The elderly Betan looked distressed. “Oh, no—”

Miles ended the argument by reaching over and plucking the fine cloth from the clutching fingers, and stuffing it back in his pocket. The herm's hand jerked after it, and fell back. Miles had met diffident people, but never before one who apologized for bleeding. Dubauer, unused to personal violence on low-crime Beta Colony, was on the edge of distraught.