Diplomatic Immunity

“You let one of them out. Are you sorry? Can you not allow Lieutenant Corbeau's courage to redeem his comrades? That has to be one of the bravest acts I've ever witnessed, him walking naked and knowing into horror to save Graf Station.”

“That . . . yes. That was remarkable,” she conceded. “By any people's standards.” She regarded him thoughtfully. “You went in after the ba too.”

“Mine doesn't count,” Miles said automatically. “I was already . . .” he cut the word, dead. He was not, dammit, dead yet. “I was already infected.”

Her brows rose in bemused curiosity. “And if you hadn't been, what would you have done?”

“Well . . . it was the tactical moment. I have a kind of gift for timing, you see.”

“And for doubletalk.”

“That, too. But the ba was just my job.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you are quite mad?”

“Now and then,” he admitted. Despite everything, a slow smile turned his lips. “Not so much since I was appointed an Imperial Auditor, though. Useful, that.”

She snorted, very softly. Softening? Miles trotted out the next barrage. “My plea is humanitarian, too. It is my belief—my hope—that the Cetagandan haut ladies will have some treatment up their capacious sleeves for their own product. I propose to take Portmaster Thorne with us—at our expense—to share the cure that I now so desperately seek for myself. It's only justice. The herm was, in a sense, in my service when it took this harm. In my work gang, if you like.”

“Huh. You Barrayarans do look after your own, at least. One of your few saving graces.”

Miles opened his hands in an equally ambiguous acknowledgment of this mixed compliment. “Thorne and I both now labor under a deadline that waits on no committee debate, I'm afraid, and no one's permission. The present palliative,” he gestured awkwardly at the blood filter, “buys a little time. As of this moment, no one knows if it will buy enough.”

She rubbed her brow, as if it ached. “Yes, certainly . . . certainly you must . . . oh, hell.” She took a breath. “All right. Take your prisoners and your evidence and the whole damned lot—and Thorne—and go.”

“And Vorpatril's men in detention?”

“Them, too. Take them all away. Your ships can all go, bar the Idris .” Her nose wrinkled in distaste. “But we will discuss the residue of your fines and expenses further, after the ship is evaluated by our inspectors. Later. Your government can send someone for the task. Not you, by preference.”

“Thank you, Madame Sealer,” Miles sang in relief. He cut the com, and collapsed back on his pillows. The ward seemed to be spinning around his head, very slowly, in short jerks. It wasn't, he decided after a moment, a problem with the room.

* * *

Captain Clogston, who had been waiting by the door for the Auditor to complete this high-level negotiation, advanced to glower at his cobbled-together blood filter some more. He then transferred his glower to Miles. “Seizure disorder, eh? I'm glad someone told me.”

“Yes, well, we wouldn't want you to mistake it for an exotic new Cetagandan symptom. It's pretty routine. If it happens, don't panic. I come up on my own in about five minutes. Usually gives me a sort of hangover, afterwards, not that I'd be able to tell the difference at the moment. Never mind. What can you tell me about Lieutenant Corbeau?”

“We checked the ba's hypospray. It was filled with water.”

“Ah! Good! I thought so.” Miles smiled in wolfish satisfaction. “Can you pronounce him clear of bio-horrors, then?”

“Given that he's been running around this plague-ship bare-ass naked, not until we're sure we have identified all possible hazards that the ba might have released. But nothing came up on the first blood and tissue samples we took.”

A hopeful—Miles tried not to think, overly optimistic —sign. “Can you send the lieutenant in to me? Is it safe? I want to talk to him.”

“We now believe that what you and the herm have isn't virulently contagious through ordinary contact. Once we're sure the ship's clear of anything else, we'll all be able to get out of these suits, which will be a relief. Although the parasites might transfer sexually—we'll have to study that.”

“I don't like Corbeau that much. Send him in, then.”

Clogston gave Miles an odd look, and moved off. Miles wasn't sure if the captain had missed the feeble joke, or merely considered it too feeble to merit a response. But that transfer sexually theory kicked off a whole new cascade of unpleasant, unwelcome speculation in Miles's mind. What if the medicos found they could keep him alive indefinitely, but not get rid of the damned things? Would he never be able to touch any more of Ekaterin than her holovid image for the rest of his life . . . ? It also suggested a new set of questions to put to Guppy about his recent travels—well, the quaddie doctors were competent, and receiving copies of the Barrayarans' medical downloads; their epidemiologists were doubtless already on it.

Corbeau pushed through the bio-barriers. He was now somewhat desultorily arrayed in a disposable mask and gloves, in addition to the medical tunic and some patient slippers. Miles sat up, pushed away his tray, and unobtrusively twitched open his own tunic, letting the paling spiderweb of old needle-grenade scars silently suggest whatever they might to Corbeau.

“You asked for me, my Lord Auditor?” Corbeau ducked his head in a nervous jerk.

“Yes.” Miles scratched his nose thoughtfully with his one free hand. “Well, hero. That was a very good career move you just made.”

Corbeau hunched a little, mulishly. “I didn't do it for my career. Or for Barrayar. I did it for Graf Station, and the quaddies, and Garnet Five.”

“And glad I am of it. Nevertheless, people will doubtless be wanting to pin gold stars on you. Cooperate with me, and I won't make you receive them in the costume you were wearing when you earned them.”

Corbeau gave him a baffled, wary look.

What was the matter with all his jokes today, anyway? Flat, flatter, flattest. Maybe he was violating some sort of unwritten Auditor protocol, and messing up everyone else's lines.

The lieutenant said, in a notably uninviting voice, “What do you want me to do? My lord.”

“More urgent concerns—to put it mildly—are going to compel me to leave Quaddiespace before my assigned diplomatic mission is quite complete. Nevertheless, with the true cause and course of our recent disasters here finally dragged out into the light, what follows should be easier.” Besides, there's nothing like the threat of imminent death to force one to delegate. “It is very plain that Barrayar is overdue to have a full-time diplomatic consulate officer assigned to the Union of Free Habitats. A bright young man who . . .” is shacked up with a quaddie girl , no, married to , wait, that wasn't what they called it here, is partners with , yes, very likely, but it hadn't happened yet. Although Corbeau was thrice a fool if he didn't grab this opportunity to fix things with Garnet Five for good and all. “Likes quaddies,” Miles continued smoothly, “and has earned both their respect and gratitude by his personal valor, and has no objection to a long assignment away from home—two years, was it? Yes, two years. Such a young man might be particularly well placed to argue effectively for Barrayar's interests in Quaddiespace. In my personal opinion.”

Miles couldn't tell if Corbeau's mouth was open, behind his medical mask. His eyes had grown rather wide.

“I can't imagine,” said Miles, “that Admiral Vorpatril would have any objection to releasing you to this detached duty. Or at any rate, to not having to deal with you in his command structure after all these . . . complex events. Not that I'd planned to give him a Betan vote in my Auditorial decrees, mind you.”

“I . . . I don't know anything about diplomacy. I was trained as a pilot.”

“If you went through military jump pilot training, you have already shown that you can study hard, learn fast, and make confident, rapid decisions affecting other people's lives. Objection overruled. You will, of course, have a consulate budget to hire expert staff to assist you in specialized problems, in law, in the economics of port fees, in trade matters, whatever. But you'll be expected to learn enough as you go to judge whether their advice is