"And what is the difference?" inquired Vorlynkin, brows rising.
"Success, usually. In any case, Dr. Leiber, you are free to leave at any time. I just don't recommend it, not unless you have a better plan for hiding out than your last one. Presuming Hans and Oki are not your bosses' only resource for legwork."
"No, they're not," sighed Leiber.
"You are also free to stay. Camping here overnight would make a better hiding place than any commercial venue, to be sure. We could all use a little time to digest all this, I suspect. Although I'd also suggest you re-think any attempt to make your orbital shuttle tomorrow afternoon. You'd certainly not make it past the shuttleport."
"No," Leiber agreed unhappily. "Not now."
"And what are you going to do next, my Lord Auditor?" asked Vorlynkin.
Miles rubbed his jaw and scowled in thought. "What any commander does when he's outnumbered, I suppose. Look for allies."
Chapter Sixteen
Roic's interrogations of their inadvertent prisoners ran as smoothly as Miles expected, though Hans and Oki's anxious self-justifications leaked through even their slap-happy fast-penta hazes. As Leiber had guessed, the two deaths had been more the result of clumsiness than malice, although the verbal picture of the pair of goons chasing the frightened old lady Tennoji around her apartment and over her balcony was sickening enough. Their attempt to force down George Suwabi's lightflyer might actually have worked, if he'd crash landed on dry ground instead of deep water. They could have pulled him out of the safety cage and whisked him off to the freezer openly feigning a quick-thinking rescue of an otherwise fatally injured man. As it was, his drowned corpse had been fished from the waters far too late for even Kibou-daini's medics to help.
Whether the strict legal definition of their acts was murder or just manslaughter, Miles was still left with the dilemma of how, now, to be rid of his unwanted guests. Catch and release was off the table. They, and their confessions, needed to be turned over to a local police authority, but not one that could be bought by their NewEgypt bosses. Not that it would play out that way, Miles guessed. Roped together by their shared guilt, Hans and Oki would be instant sacrifices, and their bosses would purchase their own freedom through a screen of expensive lawyers. Yet Miles wanted to bring down the whole NewEgypt crew, if he could.
The meticulous Roic did get to escort his captives, individually, to the loo, and give them water. For the moment, Miles had Raven put them back into a light medicated doze, although that wasn't going to be a long-term answer either. Freezing was looking better all the time. Miles damn well wasn't packing that pair home with him. Barrayar isn't suffering a goon shortage, and anyway, ours are more competent. On the bright side, the Gang of Four must be thoroughly alarmed by now at the disappearance of their minions and Leiber, hours after they should have reported in. Yeah, it might be time to start rattling a few chains.
The recordings dispatched to the consulate, Miles was at last clear to tackle WhiteChrys, where all this had started what was beginning to seem a rather long time ago. Happily, he had no trouble bulling through to an immediate appointment with Ron Wing. Miles spent the drive out to the west end mentally rehearsing his role, so as not to crack his cover while still accomplishing his aim.
They were met in Wing's outer office by a smiling executive secretary, who rose to greet them. Also rising from a comfortable-looking chair in the corner, though with a yawn not a smile, was a startling catlike creature, with the tawny body of a miniature lion and wings not unlike Gyre's, but a disturbingly human-looking face. A colorful little striped head-cloth in the style of Egyptian statuary was tied under its feminine chin. It trotted to Roic, who froze, appalled, as it wound around his legs. It butted his knees-it must have weighed ten kilos-looked up, and opened its mouth not to say, What goes on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, and three legs at night? but a mere breathy half-meow.
"Stop that, Nefertiti," scolded the secretary, and hoisted the beast to deposit it on her desk. The creature switched its tufted tail and looked offended.
Miles held out a hand for it to sniff as the secretary went on, "It's all right, she doesn't bite or scratch. She does shed, though." She added in cheerful explanation to the still stunned-looking Roic, "They were this year's promotional give-away by our competitor and neighbor, NewEgypt."
"I didn't see them at the conference," said Miles.
"Oh, they all went the first day. Very popular. They come fitted with a vocabulary of over a dozen words, and are supposed to be great with children. And good for home security." That last was delivered in a less confident tone.
"Where, um, did they have them made?" Miles inquired.
"Some bioengineering company on Jackson's Whole, I understood," she said.
Of course.
"They were shipped frozen, and NewEgypt was able to save money by reviving them in their own labs. But they prove rather tricky to maintain. Very finicky eaters."
"Cat genes…?mostly?" said Miles.
She looked rather doubtfully at the mini-sphinx, who stared back sphinxlike. "I would think so. Wouldn't you? I'll tell Mr. Wing you are here, Lord Vorkosigan."
Wing bustled out promptly to greet his self-invited guests. Leaving Roic in the outer office to chat up the secretary, and perhaps exchange riddles with the sphinx, Miles allowed himself to be ushered into Wing's inner sanctum by the man himself and settled in a comfy and elegant gel-padded visitor's chair. Nice corner suite, windows on two sides overlooking the buildings and serene gardens of the complex; Miles was weirdly reminded of Suze's lair.
Wing took a seat behind his big black glass comconsole desk, folding his hands and looking up in wary inquiry. "You say you have an emergency, Lord Vorkosigan?"
Miles picked a sphinx hair off the sleeve of his gray jacket and tried to remember what he was about. "No, I'd say you do." He sat back and scowled, wishing his feet touched the floor.
Wing seemed alert, but not alarmed. "How so?"
"I've spent a few days poking around Northbridge after the conference, and after our conference. Figuring out just what I'm getting into with my new investment. There turns out to be a hitch. Did you know?" Miles let his scowl go suspicious, in hopes of putting Wing on the defensive.
Wing merely said, "Hm?"
Miles reminded himself to keep in character while he delivered the bad news; smart enough to be believed, not so smart as to be a threat. "The structure of my compensation for services to be rendered depends on the value of my WhiteChrys Solstice shares rising, not falling. If they fall, I will be left holding not a profit, but a debt!"
"They won't fall," said Wing confidently.
"I beg to differ. Your parent company, here, is about to suffer a major financial blow."
Wing did not immediately go on soothing him, but said, "How so?"
"You know all those commodified contracts you've bought from NewEgypt? You've been sold a lot of dud dead. It turns out that a particular brand of cryo-fluid on the market between fifty and thirty years ago breaks down after a couple of decades, rendering patrons nonrevivable. Brains turned to slush, as my technical consultant so vividly phrased it. Increasingly, any revivals from that period which used that product are likely to fail. Your patrons' kin are owed back millions in nuyen and all those votes."
Wing's lips parted in genuine surprise. "Is this true?"
"You can check it yourselves, as soon as you point your labs in the right direction."