Miles shook the static from his head, and limped off to change to his black fatigues and locate Base Engineering. No help for it now; he was sunk deeper than his scat-cat. He’d simply have to avoid Metzov as much as possible for the next six months. Anything Ahn could do so well, Miles could surely do, too.
Lieutenant Bonn prepared to probe for the scat-cat. The engineering lieutenant was a slight man, maybe twenty-eight or thirty years old, with a craggy face surfaced with pocked sallow skin, reddened by the climate. Calculating brown eyes, competent-looking hands, and a sardonic air which, Miles sensed, might be permanent and not merely directed at himself. Bonn and Miles squished about atop the bog, while two engineering techs in black insulated coveralls sat perched on their heavy hovercab, safely parked on a nearby rocky outcrop. The sun was pale, the endless wind cold and damp.
“Try about there, sir,” Miles suggested, pointing, trying to estimate angles and distances in a place he had only seen at dusk. “I think you’ll have to go down at least two meters.”
Lieutenant Bonn gave him a joyless look, raised his long metal probe to the vertical, and shoved it into the bog. It jammed almost immediately. Miles frowned puzzlement. Surely the scat-cat couldn’t have floated upward. . . .
Bonn, looking unexcited, leaned his weight into the rod and twisted. It began to grind downward.
“What did you run into?” Miles asked.
“Ice,” Bonn grunted. “’Bout three centimeters thick right now. We’re standing on a layer of ice, underneath this surface crud, just like a frozen lake except it’s frozen mud.”
Miles stamped experimentally. Wet, but solid. Much as it had felt when he had camped on it.
Bonn, watching him, added, “The ice thickness varies with the weather. From a few centimeters to solid-to-the-bottom. Midwinter, you could park a freight shuttle on this bog. Come summer, it thins out. It can thaw from seeming-solid to liquid in a few hours, when the temperature is just right, and back again.”
“I . . . think I found that out.”
“Lean,” ordered Bonn laconically, and Miles wrapped his hands around the rod and helped shove. He could feel the scrunch as it scraped past the ice layer. And if the temperature had dropped a little more, the night he’d sunk himself, and the mud re-frozen, would he have been able to punch up through the icy seal? He shuddered inwardly, and zipped his parka half-up, over his black fatigues.
“Cold?” said Bonn.
“Thinking.”
“Good. Make it a habit.” Bonn touched a control, and the rod’s sonic probe beeped at a teeth-aching frequency. The readout displayed a bright teardrop shape a few meters over. “There it is.” Bonn eyed the numbers on the readout. “It’s really down in there, isn’t it? I’d let you dig it out with a teaspoon, Ensign, but I suppose winter would set in before you were done.” He sighed, and stared down at Miles as though picturing the scene.
Miles could picture it, too. “Yes, sir,” he said carefully.
They pulled the probe back out. Cold mud slicked the surface under their gloved hands. Bonn marked the spot and waved to his techs. “Here, boys!” They waved back, hopped down off the hovercab, and swung within. Bonn and Miles scrambled well out of the way, onto the rocks toward the weather station.
The hovercab whined into the air and positioned itself over the bog. Its heavy-duty space-rated tractor beam punched downward. Mud, plant matter, and ice geysered out in all directions with a roar. In a couple of minutes, the beam had created an oozing crater, with a glimmering pearl at the bottom. The crater’s sides began to slump inward at once, but the hovercab operator narrowed and reversed his beam, and the scat-cat rose, noisily sucking free from its matrix. The limp bubble shelter dangled repellently from its chain. The hovercab set its load down delicately in the rocky area, then landed beside it.
Bonn and Miles trooped over to view the sodden remains. “You weren’t in that bubble-shelter, were you, Ensign?” said Bonn, prodding it with his toe.
“Yes, sir, I was. Waiting for daylight. I . . . fell asleep.”
“But you got out before it sank.”
“Well, no. When I woke up, it was all the way under.”
Bonn’s crooked eyebrows rose. “How far?”
Miles’s flat hand found the level of his chin.
Bonn looked startled. “How’d you get out of the suction?”
“With difficulty. And adrenaline, I think. I slipped out of my boots and pants. Which reminds me, may I take a minute and look for my boots, sir?”
Bonn waved a hand, and Miles trudged back out onto the bog, circling the ring of muck spewed from the tractor beam, keeping a safe distance from the now water-filling crater. He found one mud-coated boot, but not the other. Should he save it, on the off-chance he might have one leg amputated someday? It would probably be the wrong leg. He sighed, and climbed back up to Bonn.
Bonn frowned down at the ruined boot dangling from Miles’s hand. “You could have been killed,” he said in a tone of realization.
“Three times over. Smothered in the bubble shelter, trapped in the bog, or frozen waiting for rescue.”
Bonn gave him a penetrating stare. “Really.” He walked away from the deflated shelter, idly, as if seeking a wider view. Miles followed. When they were out of earshot of the techs, Bonn stopped and scanned the bog. Conversationally, he remarked, “I heard—unofficially—that a certain motor-pool tech named Pattas was bragging to one of his mates that he’d set you up for this. And you were too stupid to even realize you’d been had. That bragging could have been . . . not too bright, if you’d been killed.”
“If I’d been killed, it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d bragged or not.” Miles shrugged. “What a Service investigation missed, I flat guarantee the Imperial Security investigation would have found.”
“You knew you’d been set up?” Bonn studied the horizon.
“Yes.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t call Imperial Security in, then.”
“Oh? Think about it, sir.”
Bonn’s gaze returned to Miles, as if taking inventory of his distasteful deformities. “You don’t add up for me, Vorkosigan. Why did they let you in the Service?”
“Why d’you think?”
“Vor privilege.”
“Got it in one.”
“Then why are you here? Vor privilege gets sent to HQ.”
“Vorbarr Sultana is lovely this time of year,” said Miles agreeably. And how was his cousin Ivan enjoying it right now? “But I want ship duty.”
“And you couldn’t arrange it?” said Bonn skeptically.
“I was told to earn it. That’s why I’m here. To prove I can handle the Service. Or . . . not. Calling in a wolf pack from ImpSec within a week of my arrival to turn the base and everyone on it inside out looking for assassination conspiracies—where, I judge, none exist—would not advance me toward my goal. No matter how entertaining it might be.” Messy charges, his word against their two words—even if Miles had pushed it to a formal investigation, with fast-penta to prove him right, the ruckus could hurt him far more in the long run than his two tormentors. No. No revenge was worth the Prince Serg.
“The motor pool is in Engineering’s chain of command. If Imperial Security fell on it, they’d also fall on me.” Bonn’s brown eyes glinted.