Diplomatic Immunity

Our intelligence services have amassed maybe half a dozen cases in the past thirty years of suspected use of haut- style bioweapons, and in every instance, it was a Cetagandan internal matter.” He glanced at Greenlaw's intensely disturbed face and added in what he hoped didn't sound like hollow reassurance, “There was no spread or bio- backsplash from those incidents that we know of.”

Venn looked at Greenlaw. “So do we take this prisoner to a clinic, or to a cell?”

Greenlaw was silent for a few moments, then said, “Graf Station University clinic. Straight to the infectious isolation unit. I think we want our best experts in on this, and as quickly as possible.”

Gupta objected, “But I'll be an open target! I was hunting the Cetagandan bastard—now he—it, whatever —will be hunting me!”

“I agree with this evaluation,” Miles said quickly. “Wherever you take Gupta, the location should be kept absolutely secret. The fact that he's even been taken into custody should be suppressed—dear God, this arrest hasn't gone out on your news services already, has it?” Piping the word of Gupta's location to every nook of the station . . .

“Not formally,” said Venn uneasily.

It scarcely mattered, Miles supposed. Dozens of quaddies had seen the web-fingered man brought in, including everybody that Bel's crew of roustabouts had passed on the way. The Docks and Locks quaddies would certainly brag of their catch to everyone they knew. The gossip would be all over.

“I strongly urge—beg!—you to put out word of his daring escape, then. Complete with follow-up bulletins asking all the citizens to keep an eye out for him again.” The ba had killed four to keep its secret—would it be willing to kill fifty thousand?

“A disinformation campaign?” Greenlaw's lips pursed in repugnance.

“The lives of everyone on the station might well depend on it. Secrecy is your best hope of safety. And Gupta's. After that, guards—”

“My people are already spread to their limit,” Venn protested. He gave Greenlaw a beseeching look.

Miles opened a hand in acknowledgment. “Not patrollers. Guards who know what they're doing, trained in bio-defense procedures.”

“We'll have to draw on Union Militia specialists,” said Greenlaw in a decisive tone. “I'll put in the request. But it will take them . . . some time, to get here.”

“In the meanwhile,” said Miles, “I can loan you some trained personnel.”

Venn grimaced. “I have a detention block full of your personnel. I'm not much impressed with their training.”

Miles suppressed a wince. “Not them . Military medical corps.”

“I will consider your offer,” said Greenlaw neutrally.

“Some of Vorpatril's senior medical men must have some expertise in this area. If you won't let us take Gupta out to the safety of one of our vessels, please, let them come aboard the station to help you.”

Greenlaw's eyes narrowed. “All right. We will accept up to four such volunteers. Unarmed. Under the direct supervision and command of our own medical experts.”

“Agreed,” said Miles instantly.

It was the best compromise he was likely to get, for the moment. The medical end of this problem, terrifying as it was, would have to be left to the specialists; it was out of Miles's range of expertise. Catching the ba before it could do any more damage, now . . .

“The haut are not immune to stunner fire. I . . . recommend”—he could not order, he could not demand, most of all, he could not scream—”you quietly inform all of your patrollers that the ba— Dubauer—be stunned on sight. Once it's down, we can sort things out at our leisure.”

Venn and Greenlaw exchanged looks with the adjudicator. Leutwyn said in a constricted voice, “It would be against regs to so ambush the suspect if it is not in process of a crime, resisting arrest, or fleeing.”

“Bioweapons?” muttered Venn.

The adjudicator swallowed. “Make damned sure your patrollers don't miss their first shot.”

“Your ruling is noted, sir.”

And if the ba stayed out of sight? Which it had certainly managed to do for most of the past twenty-four hours. . . .

What did the ba want? Its cargo freed, and Guppy dead before he could talk, presumably. What did the ba know, at this point? Or not know? It didn't know that Miles had identified its cargo . . . did it? Where the hell is Bel?

“Ambush,” Miles echoed. “There are two places where you could set up an ambush for the ba. Wherever you take Guppy—or better still, wherever the ba believes you've taken Guppy. If you don't want to put it about that he's escaped, then take him to a concealed location, with a second, less secret one set up for bait. Then, another trap at the Idris . If Dubauer calls in requesting permission to go aboard again, which the last time we met, it fully intended to do, you should grant the petition. Then nail it as it enters the loading bay.”

“That's what I was going to do,” put in Gupta in a resentful voice. “If you people had just let well enough alone, this could have been all over by now.”

Miles privately agreed, but it would hardly do to say so out loud; someone might point out just who had put on the pressure for Gupta's arrest.

Greenlaw was looking grimly thoughtful. “I wish to inspect this alleged cargo. It is possible that it violates enough regs to merit impoundment quite separately from the issue of its carrier ship.”

The adjudicator cleared his throat. “That could grow legally complex, Sealer. More complex. Cargoes not off-loaded for transfer, even if questionable, are normally allowed to pass through without legal comment. They're considered to be the territorial responsibility of the polity of registration of the carrier, unless they are an imminent public danger. A thousand fetuses, if that's what they are, constitute . . . what menace?”

Impounding them could prove a horrific danger, Miles thought. It would certainly lock Cetagandan attention upon Quaddiespace. Speaking from both historical and personal experience, this was not necessarily a good thing.

“I want to confirm this for myself, too,” said Venn. “And give my guards their orders in person, and figure out where to place my sharpshooters.”

“And you need me along, to get into the cargo hold,” Miles pointed out.

Greenlaw said, “No, just your security codes.”

Miles smiled blandly at her.

Her jaw tightened. After a moment, she growled, “Very well. Let's go, Venn. You too, Adjudicator. And,” she sighed briefly, “you, Lord Auditor Vorkosigan.”

Gupta was wrapped in bio-barriers by the two quaddies who had handled him before—a logical choice, if not much to their liking. They donned wraps and gloves themselves and towed him out without allowing him to touch anything else. The amphibian suffered this without protest. He looked utterly exhausted.

Garnet Five left with Nicol for Nicol's apartment, where the two quaddie women planned to support each other while awaiting word of Bel. “Call me ,” Nicol pleaded in an under-voice to Miles as they floated out. Miles nodded his promise, and prayed silently that it would not prove to be one of those hard calls.

His brief vid call out to the Prince Xav and Admiral Vorpatril was hard enough. Vorpatril was almost as white as his hair by the time Miles had finished bringing him up to date. He promised to expedite a selection of medical volunteers at emergency speed.

The procession to the Idris finally included Venn, Greenlaw, the adjudicator, two quaddie patrollers, Miles, and Roic. The loading bay was as dim and quiet as—had it only been yesterday? One of the two quaddie guards, watched bemusedly by the other, was out of his floater and crouched on the floor. He was evidently playing a game with gravity involving a scattering of tiny bright metal caltrops and a small rubber ball, which seemed to consist of bouncing the ball off the floor, catching it again, and snatching up the little caltrops between bounces. To make it more interesting for himself, he was switching hands with each iteration. At the sight of the visitors, the guard hastily pocketed the game and scrambled back into his floater.

Venn pretended not to see this, simply inquiring after any events of note during their shift. Not only had no