Greenlaw's weary eyes opened. “What?”
“I mean—with your permission, Madame Sealer.” He adjusted his vid pickup to a wider angle, to take in his sinister medical setting. Too late to adjust the color balance toward a more sickly green. Also, possibly, redundant. Greenlaw's mouth turned down in dismay, looking at him.
“Admiral Vorpatril has received an extremely alarming military communiqu? from home . . .” Swiftly, Miles explained his deduction about the connection of suddenly increased tensions between Barrayar and its dangerous Cetagandan neighbor to the recent events on Graf Station. He talked carefully around the tactical use of trade fleet escorts as rapid-deployment forces, although he doubted the sealer missed the implications.
“My plan is to get myself, the ba, the replicators, and as much evidence as I can amass of the ba's crimes back to Rho Ceta, to present to the Cetagandan government, to clear Barrayar of whatever accusation of collusion is driving this crisis. As fast as possible. Before some hothead—on either side—does something that, to put it bluntly, makes Admiral Vorpatril's late actions on Graf Station look like a model of restraint and wisdom.”
That won a snort from her; he forged on. “While the ba and Russo Gupta both committed crimes on Graf, they committed crimes in the Cetagandan and Barrayaran empires first. I submit we have clear prior claim. And worse—their mere continued presence on Graf Station is dangerous, because, I promise you, sooner or later their furious Cetagandan victims will be following them up. I think you've had enough of a taste of their medicine to make the prospect of a swarm of real Cetagandan agents descending upon you unwelcome indeed. Cede us both criminals, and any retribution will chase after us instead.”
“Hm,” she said. “And your impounded trade fleet? Your fines?”
“Let . . . on my authority, I am willing to transfer of ownership of the Idris to Graf Station, in lieu of all fines and expenses.” He added prudently, “As is.”
Her eyes sprang wide. She said indignantly, “The ship's contaminated .”
“Yes. So we can't take it anywhere anyway. Cleaning it up could be a nice little training exercise for your biocontrol people.” He decided not to mention the holes. “Even with that expense, you'll come out ahead. I'm afraid the passengers' insurance will have to eat the value of any of their cargo that can't be cleared. But I'm really hopeful that most of it will not need to be quarantined. And you can let the rest of the fleet go.”
“And your men in our detention cells?”
“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.