Miles regretted his inability to lean back in a chair; he straightened his spine a trifle instead. “The name is a legal fiction, not a superstition, if that's what you're asking. Actually, Emperor's Voice is a nickname for my job. My real title is Imperial Auditor—a reminder that always my first task is to listen. I answer to—and for—Emperor Gregor alone.” This seemed a good place to leave out such complications as potential impeachment by the Council of Counts, and other Barrayaran-style checks and balances. Such as assassination.
The security officer, Venn, spoke up. “So do you, or do you not, control the Barrayaran military forces here in Union space?” He'd evidently acquired enough experience of Barrayaran soldiers by now to have a little trouble picturing the slightly crooked runt floating before him dominating the bluff Vorpatril, or his no-doubt large and healthy troopers.
Yeah, but you should see my Da . . . Miles cleared his throat. “As the Emperor is commander-in-chief of the Barrayaran military, his Voice is automatically the ranking officer of any Barrayaran force in his vicinity, yes. If the emergency so demands it.”
“So are you saying that if you ordered it, those thugs out there would shoot?” said Venn sourly.
Miles managed a slight bow in his direction, not easy in free fall. “Sir, if an Emperor's Voice so ordered it, they'd shoot themselves .”
This was pure swagger—well, part swagger—but Venn didn't need to know it. Bel remained straight-faced, somehow, thank whatever gods hovered here, though Miles could almost see the laugh getting choked back. Don't pop your eardrums, Bel . The Sealer's white eyebrows took a moment to climb back down to horizontal again.
Miles continued, “Nevertheless, while it's not hard to get any group of persons excited enough to shoot at things, one purpose of military discipline is to ensure they also stop shooting on command. This is not a time for shooting, but for talking—and listening. I am listening.” He tented his fingers in front of what would be his lap, if he were sitting. “From your point of view, what was the sequence of events that led to this unfortunate incident?”
Greenlaw and Venn both started to speak at once; the quaddie woman opened an upper hand in a gesture of invitation to the security officer.
Venn nodded and continued, “It started when my department received an emergency call to apprehend a pair of your men who had assaulted a quaddie woman.”
Here was a new player on stage. Miles kept his expression neutral. “Assaulted in what sense?”
“Broke into her living quarters, roughed her up, threw her around, broke one of her arms. They evidently had been sent in pursuit of a certain Barrayaran officer who had failed to report for duty—”
“Ah. Would that be Ensign Corbeau?”
“Yes.”
“And was he in her living quarters?”
“Yes—”
“By her invitation?”
“Yes.” Venn grimaced. “They had apparently, um, become friends. Garnet Five is a premier dancer in the Minchenko Memorial Troupe, which performs live zero-gee ballet for residents of the Station and for downsider visitors.” Venn inhaled. “It is not entirely clear who went to whose defense when the Barrayaran patrol came to remove their tardy officer, but it degenerated into a noisy brawl. We arrested all the downsiders and took them to Security Post Three to sort out.”
“By the way,” Sealer Greenlaw broke in, “your Ensign Corbeau has lately requested political asylum in the Union.”
This was new, too. “How lately?”
“This morning. When he learned you were coming.”
Miles hesitated. He could imagine a dozen scenarios to account for this, ranging from the sinister to the foolish; he couldn't help it that his mind leapt to the sinister. “Are you likely to grant it?” he asked finally.
She glanced at Boss Watts, who made a little noncommittal gesture with a lower hand and said, “My department has taken it under advisement.”
“If you want my advice, you'll bounce it off the far wall,” growled Venn. “We don't need that sort here.”
“I should like to interview Ensign Corbeau at the earliest convenience,” said Miles.
“Well, he evidently doesn't want to talk to you ,” said Venn.
“Nevertheless. I consider firsthand observation and eyewitness testimony critical for my correct understanding of this complex chain of events. I'll also need to speak with the other Barrayaran—” he clipped the word hostages , and substituted, “detainees, for the same reason.”
“It's not that complex,” said Venn. “A bunch of armed thugs came charging onto my station, violated customs, stunned dozens of innocent bystanders and a number of Station Security officers attempting to carry out their duties, tried to effect what can only be called a jailbreak, and vandalized property. Charges against them for their crimes—documented on vid!—range from the discharge of illegal weapons to resisting arrest to arson in an inhabited area. It's a miracle that no one was killed.”
“That , unfortunately, has yet to be demonstrated,” Miles countered instantly. “The trouble is that from our point of view, the arrest of Ensign Corbeau was not the beginning of the sequence of events. Admiral Vorpatril had reported a man missing well before that—Lieutenant Solian. According to both your witnesses and ours, a quantity of his blood tantamount to a body part was found on the floor of a Graf Station loading bay. Military loyalty runs two ways—Barrayarans do not abandon our own. Dead or alive, where is the rest of him?”
Venn nearly ground his teeth. “We looked for the man. He is not on Graf Station. His body is not in space in any reasonable trajectory from Graf Station. We checked. We've told Vorpatril that, repeatedly.”
“How hard—or easy—is it for a downsider to disappear in Quaddiespace?”
“If I may answer that,” Bel Thorne broke in smoothly, “as that incident impinges on my department.”
Greenlaw motioned assent with a lower hand, while simultaneously rubbing the bridge of her nose with an upper.
“Boarding to and from galactic ships here is fully controlled, not only from Graf Station, but from our other nexus trade depots as well. It is, if not impossible, at least difficult to pass through customs and immigration areas without leaving some sort of record, including general vid monitors of the areas. Your Lieutenant Solian does not show up anywhere in our computer or visual records for that day.”
“Truly?” Miles gave Bel a look, Is this the straight story?
Bel returned a brief nod, Yes . “Truly. Now, in-system travel is much less strictly controlled. It is more . . . feasible, for someone to pass out of Graf Station to another Union habitat without notice. If that person is a quaddie. Any downsider, however, would stand out in the crowd. Standard missing-person procedures were followed in this case, including notifications of other habitat security departments. Solian has simply not been seen, on Graf Station or any other Union habitat.”
“How do you account for his blood in the loading bay?”
“The loading bay is on the outboard side of the station access control points. It is my opinion that whoever created that scene came from and returned to one of the ships in that docks-and-locks sector.”
Miles silently noted Bel's word choice, whoever created that scene , not whoever murdered Solian . Of course, Bel had been present at a certain spectacular emergency cryo-prep, too. . . .
Venn put in irritably, “All of which were ships from your fleet, at the time. In other words, you brought your own troubles with you. We are a peaceful people here!”