Diplomatic Immunity

Vorpatril, displaying a clear understanding of the etiquette of the situation, or at least some sense of self- preservation, began, “So. How may we serve you, my Lord Auditor?”

Miles tented his hands on the table. “I am an Auditor; my first task is to listen. If you please, Admiral Vorpatril, describe for me the course of events from your point of view. How did you arrive at this impasse?”

“From my point of view?” Vorpatril grimaced. “It started out seeming no more than the usual one damned thing after another. We were supposed to be in dock here at Graf Station for five days, for contracted cargo and passenger transfers. Since there was no reason at that time to think that the quaddies were hostile, I granted as many station leaves as possible, which is standard procedure.”

Miles nodded. The purposes of Barrayaran military escorts for Komarran ships ranged from overt to subtle to never-spoken. Overtly, escorts rode along to repel hijackers from the cargo vessels and supply the military part of the fleet with maneuvering experience scarcely less valuable than war games. More subtly, the ventures provided opportunity for all sorts of intelligence gathering—economic, political, and social, as well as military. And it provided cadres of young provincial Barrayaran men, future officers and future civilians, with seasoning contact with the wider galactic culture. On the never-spoken side were the lingering tensions between Barrayarans and Komarrans, legacy of the, in Miles's view, fully justified conquest of the latter by the former a generation ago. It was the Emperor's express policy to move from a stance of occupation to one of full political and social assimilation between the two planets. That process was proving slow and rocky.

Vorpatril continued, “The Toscane Corporation's ship Idris put into dock for jump drive adjustments, and ran into unexpected complications when they pulled things apart. Repaired parts failed to pass calibration tests when reinstalled and were sent back to the Station shops for refabrication. Five days became ten, while that bickering was going back and forth. Then Lieutenant Solian turned up missing.”

“Do I understand correctly that the lieutenant was the Barrayaran security liaison officer aboard the Idris ?” Miles said. Fleet beat cop, charged with maintaining peace and order among crew and passengers, keeping an eye out for any illegal or threatening activities or suspicious persons—not a few historic hijackings were inside jobs—and being first line of defense in counterintelligence. More quietly, keeping an ear out for potential disaffection among the Emperor's Komarran subjects. Obliged to render all possible assistance to the ship in physical emergencies, coordinating evacuation or rescue with the military escort. Liaison officer was a job that could shift from yawningly boring to lethally demanding in an eyeblink.

Captain Brun spoke for the first time. “Yes, my lord.”

Miles turned to him. “One of your people, was he? How would you describe Lieutenant Solian?”

“He was newly assigned,” Brun answered, then hesitated. “I did not have a close personal acquaintance with him, but all his prior personnel evaluations gave him high marks.”

Miles glanced at the cargomaster. “Did you know him, sir?”

“We met a few times,” said Molino. “I mostly stayed aboard the Rudra , but my impression of him was that he was friendly and competent. He seemed to get along well with crew and passengers. Quite the walking advertisement for assimilation.”

“Excuse me?”

Vorpatril cleared his throat. “Solian was Komarran, my lord.”

“Ah.” Argh . The reports hadn't mentioned this wrinkle. Komarrans were but lately permitted admittance into the Barrayaran Imperial Service; the first generation of such officers was handpicked, and on their marks to prove their loyalty and competence. The Emperor's pets , Miles had heard at least one Barrayaran fellow-officer describe them in covert disgruntlement. The success of this integration was a high personal priority of Gregor's. Admiral Vorpatril certainly knew it, too. Miles moved the mysterious fate of Solian up a few notches in his mental list of most-urgent priorities.

“What were the circumstances of his original disappearance?”

Brun answered, “Very quiet, my lord. He signed off-shift in the usual manner, and never showed up for his next watch. When his cabin was finally checked, it seemed that some of his personal effects and a valise were missing, although most of his uniforms were left. There was no record of his finally leaving the ship, but then . . . he'd know how to get out without being seen if anyone could. Which is why I posit desertion. The ship was very thoroughly searched after that. He has to have altered the records, or slipped out with the cargo, or something .”

“Any sense that he was unhappy in his work or place?”

“Not—no, my lord. Nothing special.”

“Anything not special?”

“Well, there was the usual chronic chaff about being a Komarran in this”—Brun gestured at himself —”uniform. I suppose, where he was placed, he was in position to get it from both sides.”

We're trying to all be one side, now. Miles decided this was not the time or place to pursue the unconscious assumptions behind Brun's word-choice. “Cargomaster Molino—do you have any sidelights on this? Was Solian subject to, ah, reproof from his fellow Komarrans?”

Molino shook his head. “The man seemed to be well liked by the crew of the Idris as far as I could tell. Stuck to business, didn't get into arguments.”

“Nevertheless, I gather that your first . . . impression, was that he had deserted?”

“It seemed possible,” Brun admitted. “I'm not casting aspersions, but he was Komarran. Maybe he'd found it tougher than he thought it would be. Admiral Vorpatril disagreed,” he added scrupulously.

Vorpatril waved a hand in a gesture of judicious balance. “The more reason not to think desertion. High command's been pretty careful of what Komarrans they admit to the Service. They don't want public failures.”

“In any case,” said Brun, “we put all our own security people on alert to search for him, and asked for help from the Graf Station authorities. Which they were not especially eager to offer. They just kept repeating they'd had no sign of him in either the gravity or null-gee sections, and no record of anyone of his description leaving the station on their local-space carriers.”

“And then what happened?”

Admiral Vorpatril answered, “Time ran on. Repairs on the Idris were completed and signed off. Pressure,” he eyed Molino without favor, “grew to leave Graf Station and continue on the planned route. Me—I don't leave my men behind if I can help it.”

Molino said, rather through his teeth, “It made no economic sense to tie up the entire fleet over one man. You might have left one light vessel or even a small team of investigators to pursue the matter, to follow on when they were concluded, and let the rest continue.”

“I also have standing orders not to split the fleet,” said Vorpatril, his jaw tightening.

“But we haven't suffered a hijacking attempt in this sector for decades,” argued Molino. Miles felt he was witnessing round n-plus-one of an ongoing debate.

“Not since Barrayar began providing you with free military escorts,” said Vorpatril, with false cordiality. “Odd coincidence, that.” His voice grew firmer. “I don't leave my men. I swore that at the Escobar debacle, back when I was a milk-faced ensign.” He glanced at Miles. “Under your father's command, as it happened.”

Uh-oh. This could be trouble. . . . Miles let his brows climb in curiosity. “What was your experience there, sir?”

Vorpatril snorted reminiscently. “I was a junior pilot on a combat drop shuttle, orphaned when our mothership was blown to hell by the Escos in high orbit. I suppose if we'd made it back during the retreat, we'd have been blown up with her, but still. Nowhere to dock, nowhere to run, even the few surviving ships that had an open docking cradle not pausing for us, a couple of hundred men on board including wounded—it was a right nightmare, let me tell you.”

Miles felt the admiral had barely clipped off a “son,” at the end of that last sentence.

Miles said cautiously, “I'm not sure Admiral Vorkosigan had much choice left, by the time he inherited command of the invasion after the death of Prince Serg.”

“Oh, none at all,” Vorpatril agreed, with another wave of his hand. “I'm not saying the man didn't do all he could with what he had. But he couldn't do it all, and I was among those sacrificed. Spent almost a year in an