Diplomatic Immunity

At one time, that would have been a statement of plain fact, Miles couldn't help reflecting.

Greenlaw shook her head. “I trust not on Graf Station, Portmaster!”

“Well, I certainly thank Portmaster Thorne!” said Ekaterin warmly.

Nicol's hand crept into Bel's, and she shot a look up from under her dark eyelashes for which a red-blooded soldier of any gender would gladly have traded medals, campaign ribbons, and combat bonuses all three, high command's boring speeches thrown in gratis. Bel began to look slightly more reconciled to being designated Heroic Person of the Hour.

“To be sure,” Miles agreed. “To say that I'm pleased with the portmaster's liaison services is a profound understatement. I would take it as a personal favor if the herm might continue in this assignment for the duration of my stay.”

Greenlaw caught Bel's eye, then nodded at Miles. “Certainly, Lord Auditor.” Relieved, Miles gathered, to have something to hand to him that cost her no new concessions. A small smile moved her lips, a rare event. “Furthermore, I shall grant you and your designated assistants access to Graf Station records and secured areas—under the portmaster's direct supervision.”

Miles pretended to consider this compromise, frowning artistically. “This places a substantial demand on Portmaster Thorne's time and attention.”

Bel put in demurely, “I'll gladly accept the assignment, Madam Sealer, provided Boss Watts authorizes both all my overtime hours, and another supervisor to take over my routine duties.”

“Not a problem, Portmaster. I'll direct Watts to add his increased departmental costs to the Komarran fleet's docking bill.” Greenlaw delivered this promise with a glint of grim satisfaction.

Added to Bel's ImpSec stipend, this would put the herm on triple time, Miles estimated. Old Dendarii accounting tricks, hah. Well, Miles would see that the Imperium got its money's worth. “Very well,” he conceded, endeavoring to appear stung. “Then I wish to proceed aboard the Idris immediately.”

Ekaterin didn't crack a smile, but a faint light of appreciation glimmered in her eye.

And what if she had accepted his invitation to accompany him this morning? And had walked up those stairs next to him—his assailant's erratic aim would not have passed over her head. Picturing the probable results put an unpleasant knot in his stomach, and his lingering adrenaline high tasted suddenly very sour.

“Lady Vorkosigan,”—Miles swallowed—”I am going to arrange for Lady Vorkosigan to stay aboard the Prince Xav until Graf Station Security apprehends the would-be killer and this mystery is resolved.” He added in an apologetic murmur aside to her, “Sorry . . .”

She returned him a brief nod of understanding. “It's all right.” Not happy, to be sure, but she possessed too much good Vor sense to argue about security issues.

He continued, “I therefore request special clearance for a Barrayaran personnel shuttle to dock and take her out.” Or the Kestrel ? No, he dared not lose access to his independent transport, bolthole, and secure communications station.

Greenlaw twitched. “Excuse me, Lord Vorkosigan, but that's how the last Barrayaran assault arrived stationside. We do not care to host another such influx.” She glanced at Ekaterin and took a breath. “However, I appreciate your concern. I would be glad to offer one of our pods and pilots to Lady Vorkosigan as a courtesy transport.”

Miles replied, “Madam Sealer, an unknown quaddie just tried to kill me. I'll grant I don't really think it was your secret policy, but the key word here is unknown . We don't yet know that it wasn't some quaddie—or group of quaddies—still in a position of trust. There are several experiments I'd be willing to run to find out, but this isn't one of them.”

Bel sighed audibly. “If you wish, Lord Auditor Vorkosigan, I will undertake to personally pilot Lady Vorkosigan out to your flagship.”

But I need you here!

Bel evidently read his look, for the herm added, “Or some pilot of my choosing?”

With an unfeigned reluctance, this time, Miles agreed. The next step was to call Admiral Vorpatril and inform him of his ship's new guest. Vorpatril, when his face appeared above the vid plate on the conference table, passed no comment at the news other than, “Certainly, my Lord Auditor. The Prince Xav will be honored.” But Miles could read in the admiral's shrewd glance his estimation of the increased seriousness of the situation. Miles ascertained that no hysterical preliminary dispatches about the incident had yet been squirted on their several-day trip to HQ; news and reassurances would therefore arrive, thankfully, simultaneously. Aware of their quaddie listeners, Vorpatril made no other remark than a bland request that the Lord Auditor bring him up to date on developments at his earliest convenience—in other words, as soon as he could reach a private secured comconsole.

The meeting broke up. More of Greenlaw's Union militia guards had arrived, and they all exited back into the hostel's lobby, well screened, belatedly, by armed outriders. Miles made sure to walk as far from Ekaterin as possible. In the shattered lobby, quaddie forensics techs, under Venn's direction, were taking vid scans and measurements. Miles frowned up at the balcony, considering trajectories; Bel, walking beside him and watching his glance, raised its eyebrows. Miles lowered his voice and said suddenly, “Bel, you don't suppose that loon could have been firing at you , could he?”

“Why me?”

“Well, just so. How many people does a portmaster usually piss off, in the normal course of business?” He glanced around; Nicol was out of earshot, floating beside Ekaterin and engaged in some low-voiced, animated exchange with her. “Or not-business? You haven't been, oh, sleeping with anyone's wife, have you? Or husband,” he added conscientiously. “Or daughter, or whatever.”

“No,” said Bel firmly. “Nor with their household pets, either. What a Barrayaran view of human motivations you do have, Miles.”

Miles grinned. “Sorry. What about . . . old business?”

Bel sighed. “I thought I'd outrun or outlived all the old business.” The herm eyed Miles sideways. “Almost.” And added after a thoughtful moment, “You'd surely be way ahead of me in line for that one, too.”

“Possibly.” Miles frowned. And then there was Dubauer. That herm was certainly tall enough to be a target. Although how the devil could an elderly Betan dealer in designer animals, who'd spent most of its time on Graf Station locked in a hostel room anyway, have annoyed some quaddie enough to inspire him to try to blow its timid head off? Too damned many possibles, here. It was time to inject some hard data.

CHAPTER NINE

The quaddie pilot of Bel's selecting arrived and whisked Ekaterin off, together with a couple of stern-looking Union Militia guards. Miles watched her go in mild anguish. As she turned to look over her shoulder, walking out the hostel door, he tapped his wrist com meaningfully; she silently raised her left arm, com bracelet glinting, in return.

Since they were all on their way to the Idris anyway, Bel used the delay to call Dubauer down to the lobby again. Dubauer, smooth cheek now neatly sealed with a discreet dab of surgical glue, arrived promptly, and stared in some alarm at their new quaddie military escort. But the shy, graceful herm appeared to have regained most of its self-possession, and murmured sincere gratitude to Bel for recollecting its creatures' needs despite all the tumult.

The little party walked or floated, variously, trailing Portmaster Thorne via a notably un-public back way through the customs and security zone to the array of loading bays devoted to galactic shipping. The bay serving the Idris, clamped into its outboard docking cradle, was quiet and dim, unpeopled except for the two Graf Station security patrollers guarding the hatches.

Bel presented its authorization, and the two patrollers floated aside to allow Bel access to the hatch controls. The door to the big freight lock slid upward, and, leaving their Union Militia escort to help guard the entry,