“With no explanation of why ,” put in Molino.
Vorpatril glowered at him. “During an alert, a commander does not stop to explain orders. He expects to be instantly obeyed. Besides, the way you people had been champing at the bit, complaining about the delays, I hardly thought I'd need to repeat myself.” A muscle jumped in his jaw; he inhaled and returned to his narrative. “At this point, we suffered something of a communications breakdown.”
Here comes the smokescreen, at last.
“Our understanding was that a two-man security patrol, sent to retrieve an officer who was late reporting in—”
“That would be Ensign Corbeau?”
“Yes. Corbeau. As we understood it at the time, the patrol and the ensign were attacked, disarmed, and detained by quaddies. The real story as it emerged later was more complex, but that was what I had to go on as I was trying to clear Graf Station of all our personnel and stand off for any contingency up to immediate evacuation from local space.”
Miles leaned forward. “Did you believe it to be random quaddies who had seized your men, or did you understand it to have been Graf Station Security?”
Vorpatril didn't quite grind his teeth, but almost. He answered nonetheless, “Yes, we knew it was their security.”
“Did you ask your legal officer to advise you?”
“No.”
“Did Ensign Deslaurier volunteer advice?”
“No, my lord,” Deslaurier managed to whisper.
“I see. Go on.”
“I ordered Captain Brun to send a strike patrol in to retrieve, now, three men from a situation that I believed had just proved lethally dangerous to Barrayaran personnel.”
“Armed with rather more than stunners, I understand?”
“I couldn't ask my men to go up against those numbers with only stunners, my lord,” said Brun. “There are a million of those mutants out there!”
Miles let his brows climb. “On Graf Station? I thought its resident population was around fifty thousand. Civilians.”
Brun made an impatient gesture. “A million to twelve, fifty thousand to twelve—regardless, they needed weapons with authority. My rescue party needed to get in and out as quickly as possible, having to deal with as little argument or resistance as possible. Stunners are useless as weapons of intimidation.”
“I am familiar with the argument.” Miles leaned back and rubbed his lips. “Go on.”
“My patrol reached the place our men were being held—”
“Graf Station Security Post Number Three, was it not?” Miles put in.
“Yes.”
“Tell me—in all the time since the fleet has been here, hadn't any of your men on leave had close encounters with Station Security? No drunk and disorderlies, no safety violations, nothing?”
Brun, looking as though the words were being pulled from his mouth with dental pliers, said, “Three men were arrested by Graf Station Security last week for racing float chairs in an unsafe manner while inebriated.”
“And what happened to them? How did your fleet legal advisor handle it?”
Ensign Deslaurier muttered, “They spent a few hours in lock-up, then I went down and saw that their fines were paid, and pledged to the stationer adjudicator that they would be confined to quarters for the duration of our stay.”
“So you were all by then familiar with standard procedures for retrieving men from contretemps with Station authorities?”
“These were not drunk and disorderlies this time. These were our own security forces carrying out their duties,” said Vorpatril.
“Go on,” sighed Miles. “What happened with your patrol?”
“I still don't have their own firsthand reports, my lord,” said Brun stiffly. “The quaddies have only let one unarmed medical officer visit them in their current place of confinement. Shots were exchanged, both stunner and plasma fire, inside Security Post Three. Quaddies swarmed the place, and our men were overwhelmed and taken prisoner.”
The “swarming” quaddies had included, not unnaturally in Miles's view, most of the Graf Station professional and volunteer fire brigades. Plasma fire. In a civilian space station. Oh, my aching head.
“So,” said Miles gently, “after we shot up the police station and set the habitat on fire, what did we do for an encore?”
Admiral Vorpatril's teeth set, briefly. “I am afraid that, when the Komarran ships in dock failed to obey my urgent orders to cast off and instead allowed themselves to be locked down, I lost the initiative in the situation. Too many hostages had passed into quaddie control by then, the Komarran independent captain-owners were entirely laggard in obeying my position orders, and the quaddies' own militia, such as it is, was allowed to move into position around us. We froze in a standoff for almost two full days. Then we were ordered to stand down and wait your arrival.”
Thank all the gods for that . Military intelligence was as nothing to military stupidity. But to slide halfway to stupid and stop was rare indeed. Vorpatril deserved some credit for that, at least.
Brun put in glumly, “Not much choice at that point. It's not as though we could threaten to blow up the station with our own ships in dock.”
“You couldn't blow up the station in any case,” Miles pointed out mildly. “It would be mass murder. Not to mention a criminal order. The Emperor would have you shot.”
Brun flinched and subsided.
Vorpatril's lips thinned. “The Emperor, or you?”
“Gregor and I would flip a coin to see who got to go first.”
A little silence fell.
“Fortunately,” Miles continued, “it appears heads have cooled all round. For that, Admiral Vorpatril, I do thank you. I might add, the fates of your respective careers are a matter between you and your Ops command.” Unless you manage to make me late for the births of my very first children, in which case you'd better start looking for a deep, deep hole. “My job is to talk out as many of the Emperor's subjects from quaddie hands, at the lowest prices, as I can. If I'm really lucky, when I'm done our trade fleets may be able to dock here again someday. You have not given me an especially strong hand of cards to play, here, unfortunately. Nonetheless, I'll see what I can do. I want copies of all raw transcripts pertaining to these late events provided for my review, please.”
“Yes, my lord,” growled Vorpatril. “But,” his voice grew almost anguished, “that still doesn't tell me what happened to Lieutenant Solian!”
“I will undertake to give that question my keenest attention as well, Admiral.” Miles met his eyes. “I promise you.”
Vorpatril nodded shortly.
“But, Lord Auditor Vorkosigan!” Cargomaster Molino put in urgently. “Graf Station authorities are trying to fine our Komarran vessels for the damage done by Barrayaran troops. It must be made plain to them that the military stands alone in this . . . criminal activity.”
Miles hesitated a long moment. “How fortunate for you, Cargomaster,” he said at last, “that in the event of a genuine attack, the reverse would not be true.” He tapped the table and rose to his feet.
CHAPTER THREE
Miles stood on tiptoe to peer through the little port beside the Kestrel 's personnel hatch as the ship maneuvered toward its assigned docking cradle. Graf Station was a vast jumbled aggregation, an apparent chaos of design not surprising in an installation in its third century of expansion. Somewhere buried in the core of the sprawling, bristling structure was a small metallic asteroid, honeycombed for both space and the material used in building this very oldest of the quaddies' many habitats. Also somewhere in its innermost sections could still be seen, according to the guidevids, actual elements from the broken-apart and reconfigured jumpship in which the initial band of hardy quaddie pioneers had made their historic voyage to this refuge.