View Flat HTML
View Metadata
Search Post
In the wake of the death of Empress Rian Degtiar of the Cetagandan Empire, cordiality from Barrayar consists of sending a couple of lieutenants to attend the funeral. It promises to be a series of social scaffolding appointments, a funeral, some more socialization - all of it principally with ghem-lords and -ladies; Barrayaran lieutenants, Ivan is sure, do not rate shoulder-rubbing with haut, but that's all well and good anyway - and then going home. Well enough. They have a diplomatic purpose, but they are not, actually, diplomats - if actual diplomats were supposed to be necessary Ivan assumes someone with Ambassador in front of his name would have been sent in... lieu of... lieutenants.
"Now," Ivan says, for want of better ways to pass the time, "is it, 'Diplomacy is the art of war pursued by other men', or is it the other way around...?"
+ Show First Post
middlingalong
thisvorlunatic
"I'm all right," he shrugs. In fact, somewhat astonishingly, he doesn't seem to have suffered any damage at all. Not a single bone broken. Well done, Miles.
middlingalong
Ivan inspects Miles's newly augmented inventory. Nerve disruptor. Weird rod thing. "How'd you end up with all the weapons?"
thisvorlunatic
"I... don't quite know." He tucks the nerve disruptor into his own trouser pocket, engaging the safety lock on the way, and holds the mysterious rod up to catch more of the freight bay's dim light. "I thought at first this was some kind of shock-stick, but it's not. It's something electronic, but I sure don't recognize the design."
middlingalong
"A grenade," Ivan suggests blackly. "A time bomb. They can make them look like anything, y'know."
thisvorlunatic
"I don't think so—"
"My lords," the pod pilot interrupts from the hatchway. "Station flight control is ordering us not to dock here. They're telling us to stand off and wait clearance. Immediately."
"My lords," the pod pilot interrupts from the hatchway. "Station flight control is ordering us not to dock here. They're telling us to stand off and wait clearance. Immediately."
thisvorlunatic
"It's the coordinates they gave me, my lord," the pilot objects.
"Not your error, Sergeant, I'm sure," says Miles in his soothingest tones.
"Flight control sounds very forceful. Please, my lords."
Miles follows him back into the pod, hardly paying attention to the routine physical movements of navigating in zero-G and strapping himself back into his seat; his mind is fully occupied trying to analyze this bizarre incident.
"This section of the station must have been deliberately cleared of personnel," he concludes. "I'll bet you Betan dollars Cetagandan security is in process of conducting a sweep-search for that fellow. A fugitive, by God." But what flavour of flyer might he be? Thief, murderer, spy? Thief could explain the mysterious object, murderer the nerve disruptor... spy entails more, and consequentially foggier, possibilities.
"Not your error, Sergeant, I'm sure," says Miles in his soothingest tones.
"Flight control sounds very forceful. Please, my lords."
Miles follows him back into the pod, hardly paying attention to the routine physical movements of navigating in zero-G and strapping himself back into his seat; his mind is fully occupied trying to analyze this bizarre incident.
"This section of the station must have been deliberately cleared of personnel," he concludes. "I'll bet you Betan dollars Cetagandan security is in process of conducting a sweep-search for that fellow. A fugitive, by God." But what flavour of flyer might he be? Thief, murderer, spy? Thief could explain the mysterious object, murderer the nerve disruptor... spy entails more, and consequentially foggier, possibilities.
middlingalong
Ivan pulls a sticky-ended cluster of white hairs from his sleeve. "This isn't real hair."
thisvorlunatic
"Really?" says Miles, peering at the adhesive on the artificial hairs. "Huh."
Their pod pulls away from the station, revealing the row of docking pockets - empty for a dozen spaces on either side of their first docking site.
"I'll report this incident to the station authorities, shall I, my lords?" says the pilot, reaching for his com controls.
"Wait," says Miles.
"My lord?" The pilot glances over his shoulder with a doubtful expression. "I think we should—"
"Wait till they ask us. After all," he says persuasively, "we're not in the business of cleaning up Cetagandan security's lapses after them, are we? It's their problem."
"Yes, sir," says the pilot, treating the suggestion as an order and thereby depositing all responsibility with Miles, although his brief grin signals that he agrees with the provided reasoning. "Whatever you say, sir."
Their pod pulls away from the station, revealing the row of docking pockets - empty for a dozen spaces on either side of their first docking site.
"I'll report this incident to the station authorities, shall I, my lords?" says the pilot, reaching for his com controls.
"Wait," says Miles.
"My lord?" The pilot glances over his shoulder with a doubtful expression. "I think we should—"
"Wait till they ask us. After all," he says persuasively, "we're not in the business of cleaning up Cetagandan security's lapses after them, are we? It's their problem."
"Yes, sir," says the pilot, treating the suggestion as an order and thereby depositing all responsibility with Miles, although his brief grin signals that he agrees with the provided reasoning. "Whatever you say, sir."
thisvorlunatic
"Observing. I'm going to observe and see how good Cetagandan station security is at their job. I think Illyan would want to know, don't you? Oh, they'll be around to question us, and take these goodies back, but this way I can get more information in return. Relax, Ivan."
thisvorlunatic
Miles studies the aforementioned goodies. The nerve disruptor is of unknown but exceptionally fine civilian make - Miles would recognize Cetagandan military issue anywhere. But it's not as glitzy as the ghem-lords tend to make their decorative personal armaments: it's sleekly functional, small enough to carry concealed. Curious, since the Cetagandans are not known for welcoming the dispersal of deadly anti-personnel weapons among their populace.
The other one is yet curiouser. A transparent cylinder, glittering beautifully from within; Miles suspects artfully disguised microcircuitry. One end is plain, the other covered by an engraved seal; he detects a metallic glint from the depths of the grooves.
"This looks like it's meant to be inserted in something," he notes aloud.
The other one is yet curiouser. A transparent cylinder, glittering beautifully from within; Miles suspects artfully disguised microcircuitry. One end is plain, the other covered by an engraved seal; he detects a metallic glint from the depths of the grooves.
"This looks like it's meant to be inserted in something," he notes aloud.
thisvorlunatic
"With the ghem-lords, who can say? But no, I don't think so."
The engraved pattern depicts a screaming bird, wings flared, talons extended. Somewhere, logically, there must be a device embossed with a complementary design, its contact points ready to transmit the codes that open the seal. And then what? Information of some kind, living amid that gorgeous ghostly glitter... what secrets might it hold, in this secretive empire?
The engraved pattern depicts a screaming bird, wings flared, talons extended. Somewhere, logically, there must be a device embossed with a complementary design, its contact points ready to transmit the codes that open the seal. And then what? Information of some kind, living amid that gorgeous ghostly glitter... what secrets might it hold, in this secretive empire?
thisvorlunatic
"Keep it for a souvenir, I suppose," he says flippantly. "It's too pretty to throw away. Maybe I'll take it home as a present to Illyan, let his cipher-laboratory elves play with it as an exercise." He turns the object over in his hands and adds, "For about a year. It's not an amateur's bauble, even I can tell that."
To forestall further objections, he tucks the thing away in the inner breast pocket of his tunic - and hands Ivan the captured nerve disruptor. "Ah—you want to keep this?"
To forestall further objections, he tucks the thing away in the inner breast pocket of his tunic - and hands Ivan the captured nerve disruptor. "Ah—you want to keep this?"
middlingalong
"Ah, yes," says Ivan, and he accepts the weapon, satisfied by this piratical distribution of their captured objects.
thisvorlunatic
After a few more minutes, which Miles spends lost in thought, station traffic control provides new docking coordinates - directing them to a pod pocket two spaces over from their original docking site. The pilot tucks the pod into its new home; the hatch opens without incident; Miles once again waits for Ivan to go first.
middlingalong
Ivan... hesitates, but goes along the flex tube when it is presented.
The receiving chamber is just like the last one, maybe better maintained - certainly more populated. There are five Barrayarans in it, Lord Vorob'yev in House wine-red and black flanked by four guards in undress greens; and two Cetagandan stationers.
The receiving chamber is just like the last one, maybe better maintained - certainly more populated. There are five Barrayarans in it, Lord Vorob'yev in House wine-red and black flanked by four guards in undress greens; and two Cetagandan stationers.
thisvorlunatic
That's... not what Miles was expecting.
Still, when has he ever let that stop him?
"Good afternoon, Lord Vorob'yev," he says to the ambassador, offering him a sealed diplomatic disk. "My father sends you his personal regards, and these messages."
One of the station officials notes something down on his report panel - probably the transfer of the disk, since the transfer of Aral Vorkosigan's personal regards is unlikely to merit a mention on a customs form. Although with Cetagandans, you never know.
"Six items of luggage?" the same stationer asks, inclining his head at the stack of them as the pod pilot finishes piling them up on the float pallet provided for this purpose. The pilot, with this last task complete, salutes Miles and disappears back into his ship. Miles verifies at a quick glance that the stack contains both of his luggage cases and all four of Ivan's.
Still, when has he ever let that stop him?
"Good afternoon, Lord Vorob'yev," he says to the ambassador, offering him a sealed diplomatic disk. "My father sends you his personal regards, and these messages."
One of the station officials notes something down on his report panel - probably the transfer of the disk, since the transfer of Aral Vorkosigan's personal regards is unlikely to merit a mention on a customs form. Although with Cetagandans, you never know.
"Six items of luggage?" the same stationer asks, inclining his head at the stack of them as the pod pilot finishes piling them up on the float pallet provided for this purpose. The pilot, with this last task complete, salutes Miles and disappears back into his ship. Miles verifies at a quick glance that the stack contains both of his luggage cases and all four of Ivan's.