Barrayar

Chapter Sixteen

Illegal vegetables. Cordelia sat in bemused contemplation between sacks of cauliflower and boxes of cultivated brillberries as the creaking hovertruck coughed along. Southern vegetables, that flowed toward Vorbarr Sultana on a covert route just like hers. She was half-certain that under that pile were a few sacks of the same green cabbages she’d traveled with two or three weeks ago, migrating according to the strange economic pressures of the war.

The Districts controlled by Vordarian were now under strict interdiction by the Districts loyal to Vorkosigan. Though starvation was still a long way off, food prices in the capital of Vorbarr Sultana had skyrocketed, in the face of hoarding and the coming winter. So poor men were inspired to take chances. And a poor man already taking a chance was not averse to adding a few unlisted passengers to his load, for a bribe.

It was Koudelka who’d generated the scheme, abandoning his urgent disapproval, drawn in to their strategizing almost despite himself. It was Koudelka who’d found the produce wholesale warehouses in the town in Vorinnis’s District, and cruised the loading docks for independents striking out with their loads. Though it was Bothari who’d ruled the size of the bribe, pitifully small to Cordelia’s mind, but just right for the parts they now played of desperate countryfolk.

“My father was a grocer,” Koudelka had explained stiffly, when selling his scheme to them. “I know what I’m doing.”

Cordelia had puzzled for a moment what his wary glance at Droushnakovi meant, till she recalled Drou’s father was a soldier. Kou had talked of his sister and widowed mother, but it was not till that moment that Cordelia realized Kou had edited his father from his reminiscences out of social embarrassment, not any lack of love between them. Koudelka had vetoed the choice of a meat truck for transport: “It’s more likely to be stopped by Vordarian’s guards,” he’d explained, “so they can shake down the driver for steaks.” Cordelia wasn’t sure if he was speaking from military or food service experience, or both. In any case, she was grateful not to ride with grisly refrigerated carcasses.

They dressed for their parts as best they could, pooling the satchel and the clothes they stood in. Bothari and Koudelka played two recently discharged vets, looking to better their sorry lot, and Cordelia and Drou two countrywomen co-scheming with them. The women were decked in a realistically odd combination of worn mountain dress and upper-class castoffs apparently acquired from some secondhand shop. They managed the right touch of mis-fittedness, of women not wearing originals, by trading garments.

Cordelia’s eyes closed in exhaustion, though sleep was far from her. Time ticked in her brain. It had taken them two days to get this far. So close to their goal, so far from success … Her eyes snapped open again when the truck halted and thumped to the ground.

Bothari eased through the opening to the driver’s compartment. “We get out here,” he called lowly. They all filed through, dropping to the city curb. Their breath smoked in the chill. It was pre-dawn dark, with fewer lights about than Cordelia thought there ought to be. Bothari waved the transport on.

“Didn’t think we should ride all the way in to the Central Market,” Bothari grunted. “Driver says Vorbohn’s municipal guards are thick there this time of day, when the new stocks come in.”

“Are they anticipating food riots?” Cordelia asked.

“No doubt, plus they like to get theirs first,” said Koudelka. “Vordarian’s going to have to put the army in soon, before the black market sucks all the food out of the rationing system.” Kou, in the moments he forgot to pretend himself an artificial Vor, displayed an amazing and detailed grasp of black-market economics. Or, how had a grocer bought his son the education to gain entry to the fiercely competitive Imperial Military Academy? Cordelia grinned under her breath, and looked up and down the street. It was an old section of town, pre-dating lift tubes, no buildings more than six flights high. Shabby, with plumbing and electricity and light-pipes cut into the architecture, added as afterthoughts.

Bothari led off, seeming to know where he was going. The maintenance did not improve, in their direction of transit. Streets and alleys narrowed, channeling a moist aroma of decay, with an occasional whiff of urine. Lights grew fewer. Drou’s shoulders hunched. Koudelka gripped his stick.

Bothari paused before a narrow, ill-lit doorway bearing a hand-lettered sign, Rooms. “This’ll do.” The door, an ancient non-automatic that swung on hinges, was locked. He rattled it, then knocked. After a long time, a little door within the door opened, and suspicious eyes stared out.

“Whatcha want?”

“Room.”

“At this hour? Not damned likely.”

Bothari pulled Drou forward. The stripe of light from the opening played over her face.

“Huh,” grunted the door—muffled voice. “Well …” Some clinking of chains, the grind of metal, and the door swung open.

They all huddled in to a narrow hallway featuring stairs, a desk, and an archway leading back to a darkened chamber. Their host grew even grumpier when he learned they desired only one room among the four of them. Yet he did not question it; apparently their real desperation lent their pose of poverty a genuine edge. With the two women and especially Koudelka in the party, no one seemed to leap to identify them as secret agents.

They settled into a cramped, cheap upstairs room, giving Kou and Drou first shot at the beds. As dawn seeped through the window, Cordelia followed Bothari back downstairs to forage.

“I should have realized we’d need to bring rations, to a city under siege,” Cordelia muttered.

“It’s not that bad yet,” said Bothari. “Ah—best you don’t talk, Milady. Your accent.”

“Right. In that case, strike up a conversation with this fellow, if you can. I want to hear the local view of things.”

They found the innkeeper, or whatever he was, in the little room beyond the archway, which, judging from a counter and a couple of battered tables with chairs, doubled as a bar and a dining room. The man reluctantly sold them some seal-packed food and bottled drinks at inflated prices, while complaining about the rationing and angling for information about them.

“I been planning this trip for months,” said Bothari, leaning on the bar, “and the damned war’s bitched it.”

The innkeep made an encouraging noise, one entrepreneur to another. “Oh? What’s your strat?”

Bothari licked his lips, eyes narrowing in thought. “You saw that blonde?”

“Yo?”

“Virgin.”

“No way. Too old.”

“Oh, yeah. She can pass for class, that one. We were gonna sell it to some Vor lord at Winterfair. Get us a grubstake. But they’ve all skipped town. Could try for a rich merchant, I guess. But she won’t like it. I promised her a real lord.”

Cordelia hid her mouth behind her hand, and tried not to emit any attention-drawing noises. It was an excellent thing Drou was not there to learn Bothari’s idea of a cover story. Good God. Did Barrayaran men actually pay for the privilege of committing that bit of sexual torture upon uninitiated women?

The ’keep glanced at Cordelia. “You leave her alone with your partner without her duenna, you could lose what you came to sell.”

“Naw,” said Bothari. “He would if he could, but he took a nerve-disruptor bolt, once. Below the belt, like. He’s out on medical discharge.”

“What’re you out on?”

“Discharged without prejudice.”

This was a code-phrase for, Quit or be housed in the stockade, as Cordelia understood it, the ultimate fate of chronic troublemakers who fell just, but only just, short of felony.

“You put up with a spastic?” The ’keep jerked his head, indicating their upstairs room and its inhabitants.

“He’s the brains of the outfit.”

“Not too many brains, to come up here and try to do that bit of business now.”

“Yeah. I think I could’ve had a better price for that same piece of meat here if I’d had her butchered and dressed.”

“You got that right,” snorted the ’keep glumly, eyeing the food piled on the counter before Cordelia.

“She’s too good to waste, though. Guess I’ll have to find something else, till this mess blows over. Kill some time. Somebody may be hiring muscle…” Bothari let this trail off. Was he running out of inspiration?

The ’keep studied him with interest. “Yo? I’ve had something in my eye I could use a, like, agent for. Been afraid for a week somebody else’d go after it first. You could be just what I need.”

“Yo?”

The ’keep leaned forward across the bar, confidentially. “Count Vordarian’s boys are giving out some fat rewards, down at ImpSec, for information-leading-to. Now, I wouldn’t normally mess with ImpSec whoever was running it this week, but there’s a strange fellow down the street who’s taken a room. And he keeps to it, ’cept when he goes out for food, more food than one man might eat … he’s got someone in there with him no one ever sees. And he sure isn’t one of us. I can’t help thinking he might be … worth something to somebody, eh?”

Bothari frowned judiciously. “Could be dangerous. Admiral Vorkosigan blows back into town, they’ll be looking real hard for that little list of informers. And you have an address.”

“But you don’t, seems. If you’d front it, I could give you a ten percent split. I think he’s big, that fellow. He’s sure scared.”

Bothari shook his head. “I been out-country, and I came up here—can’t you smell it, here in the city? Defeat, man. Vordarian’s people look downright morbid to me. I’d think real carefully ’bout that list, if I was you.”

The ’keep’s lips tightened in frustration. “One way or another, opportunity’s not going to last.”

Cordelia grabbed for Bothari’s ear to whisper, “Play along. Find out who it is. Could be an ally.” After a moment’s thought she added, “Ask for fifty percent.”

Bothari straightened, nodded. “Fifty-fifty,” he said to the ’keep. “For the risk.”

The ’keep frowned at Cordelia, but respectfully. He said reluctantly, “Fifty percent of something’s better than a hundred percent of nothing, I suppose.”

“Can you get me a look at this fellow?” asked Bothari.

“Maybe.”

“Here, woman.” Bothari piled the packages in Cordelias arms. “Take these back to the room.”

Cordelia cleared her throat, and tried for an imitation mountain accent. “You be careful belike. City man’ll take you.”

Bothari favored the ’keep with an alarming grin. “Ah, he wouldn’t try and cheat an old vet. More than once.”

The ’keep smiled back nervously.

Cordelia dozed uneasily, and jerked awake as Bothari returned to their little room. He checked the hallway carefully before closing the door behind him. He looked grim.

“Well, Sergeant? What did you find out?” What if their fellow-hider turned out to be someone as strategically important as, say, Admiral Kanzian? The thought frightened her. How could she resist being turned aside from her personal mission if some greater good were too crystal-clear … Kou on a pallet on the floor, and Drou on the other cot, both blinking sleep, sat up on their elbows to listen.

“It’s Lord Vorpatril. Lady Vorpatril, too.”

“Oh, no.” She sat upright. “Are you certain?”

“Oh, yes.”

Kou scrubbed at his scalp, hair bent with sleep. “Did you make contact with them?”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“It’s Lady Vorkosigan’s call. Whether to divert from our primary mission.”

And to think she’d wished for command: “Do they seem all right?”

“Alive, lying low. But—that git downstairs can’t have been the only one to spot them. I’ve spiked him for now, but somebody else could get greedy any time.”

“Any sign of the baby?”

He shook his head. “She hasn’t had it yet.”

“It’s late! She was due over two weeks ago. How hellish.” She paused. “Do you think we could escape the city together?”

“The more people in a party, the more conspicuous,” Bothari said slowly. “And I caught a glimpse of Lady Vorpatril. She’s real conspicuous. People’d notice her.”

“I don’t see how joining us now would improve their position. Their cover’s worked for several weeks. If we succeed at the Residence, maybe we can try for them on the way back. Certainly have Illyan send loyalist agents to help them, if we get back …” Damn. If she were an official raid, she’d have just the contacts the Vorpatrils needed. But then, if she were an offical raid, she doubtless would not have come this way. She sat thinking. “No. No contact yet. But we’d better do something to discourage your friend downstairs.”

“I have,” said Bothari. “Told him I knew where I could get a better price, and not risk my head later. We may be able to bribe him to help us.”

“You’d trust him?” said Droushnakovi doubtfully.

Bothari grimaced. “As far as I can see him. I’ll try to keep an eye on him, while we’re here. ’Nother thing. I caught a broadcast on his vid in the back room. Vordarian had himself declared Emperor last night.”

Kou swore. “So he’s finally gone and done it.”

“But what does it mean?” asked Cordelia. “Does he feel himself strong, or is it a move of desperation?”

“Last-ditch ploy to try to sway the space forces, I’d guess,” said Kou.

“Will it really attract more men than it offends?”

Kou shook his head. “We have a real fear of chaos, on Barrayar. We’ve tried it. It’s nasty. The Imperium has been identified as a source of order ever since Dorca Vorbarra broke ’the power of the warring counts and unified the planet. Emperor is a real power-word, here.”

“Not to me,” Cordelia sighed. “Let’s get some rest. Maybe by this time tomorrow it’ll all be over.” Hopeful/gruesome thought, depending on how it was construed. She counted the hours over for the thousandth time, one day left to penetrate the Residence, two to get back to Vdrkosigan’s territories … not much to spare. She felt as if she was flying, faster and faster. And running out of turning room.

Last chance to call the whole thing off. A fine misting rain had brought early dusk to the city. Cordelia stared out the dirty window into the slick street, striped with the reflections of a few sickly amber-haloed streetlights. Only a few bundled shapes hurried along, heads down.

It was as if war and the winter had inhaled autumn’s last breath, and blew back out a deathly silence. Nerves, Cordelia told herself, straightened her back, and led her little party downstairs.

The desk was deserted. Cordelia was just deciding to skip such formalities as checking out-they had, after all, paid in advance—when the ’keep came stomping in through the front door, shaking cold drops from his jacket and swearing. He spotted Bothari.

“You! It’s all your fault, you gutless git. We missed it, we bloody missed it, and now someone else will collect. That reward could’ve been mine, should’ve been mine—”

The ’keep’s invective was cut off with a thump as Bothari pinned him to the wall. The man’s toes stretched for the floor as Bothari’s suddenly feral face leaned into his. “What happened?”

“One of Vordarian’s squads picked up that fellow. Looks like he led them back to his partner, too.” The ’keep’s voice wavered between anger and fear. “They’ve got them both, and I’ve got nothing!”

“Got them?” Cordelia repeated sickly.

“Picking ’em off right now, damn it.”

There might still be a chance, Cordelia realized. Command decision or tactical compulsion, it hardly mattered now. She grabbed a stunner out of the satchel; Bothari stepped back and she buzzed the ’keep where he stood openmouthed. Bothari shoved his inert form behind the desk. “We have to try for them. Drou, break out the rest of the weapons. Sergeant, lead us there. Go!”

And so she found herself running down the street toward a scene any right-minded Barrayaran would run the other way to avoid, a night-arrest by security forces. Drou kept up with Bothari; Koudelka, burdened with the satchel, lagged behind. Cordelia wished the mist were thicker.

The Vorpatrils’ bolt-hole turned out to be two blocks down and one over, in a shabby narrow building much like the one they’d spent the day in. Bothari held up a hand, and they peered cautiously around the corner, then drew back. Two Security groundcars were parked out front of the little hostel, covering the entrance. But for themselves, the area was strangely deserted. Koudelka came panting up behind.

“Droushnakovi,” said Bothari, “circle around. Get a cross-fire position covering the other side of those groundcars. Watch out, they’re sure to have men at the back door.”

Yes, street tactics were clearly Bothari’s call. Drou nodded, checked her weapons’ charges, and walked as if casually across the corner, not even turning her head. Once out of the enemy’s line of sight, she flowed into a silent run.

“We got to get a better position,” Bothari muttered, risking his head once more around the corner. “Can’t bloody see.”

“A man and a woman walk down the street,” Cordelia visualized desperately. “They stop to talk in a doorway. They goggle curiously at the security men, who are engrossed in their arrest—would we pass?”

“Not for long,” said Bothari, “once they spot our energy weapons on their area scanners. But we’d last longer than two men. It’s going to move fast, when it moves. Might pass just long enough. Lieutenant, cover us from here. Have the plasma arc ready, it’s all we’ve got to stop a vehicle.”

Bothari shoved his nerve disruptor out of sight under his jacket. Cordelia tucked her stunner in the waistband of her skirt, and lightly took Bothari’s arm. They strolled around the corner.

This was a really stupid idea, Cordelia decided, matching steps to Bothari’s booted stride. They should have set up hours ago, if they’d been going to try an ambush like this. Or they should have hooked Padma and Alys out hours ago. And yet—how long ago had Padma been spotted? Might they have fallen into some long-laid trap, and gone down together? No might-have-beens. Pay attention to the now.

Bothari’s steps slowed, as they approached a deep shadowed doorway. He swung her in, and leaned with his arm on the wall, close to her. They were near enough now to the arrest scene to catch voices. Snatches of crackle from the comm links carried clearly in the damp air.

Just in time. Despite the shabby shirt and trousers, Cordelia readily recognized the dark-haired man pinned against the groundcar by one guard as Captain Vorpatril. His face was marred with a grated, bleeding contusion and swollen lips, pulled back in a stereotypical fast-penta-induced smile. The smile slipped to anguish, and back again, and his giggles choked on moans.

Black-clad security men were bundling a woman out the hostel door and into the street. The security team’s attention was drawn to her; Cordelia’s and Bothari’s, too.

Alys Vorpatril wore only a nightgown and robe, with her feet jammed bare into flat shoes. Her dark hair was loose, flowing down wildly around her white face; she looked a fair madwoman. She was indeed conspicuously pregnant, black robe falling open around her white-gowned belly. The guard manhandling her had her arms locked behind her; her legs splayed for balance against his backward pull.

The guard commander, a full colonel, checked a report panel. “That’s it, then. The lord and the heir.” His eye locked to Alys Vorpatril’s abdomen; he shook his head as if to clear it, and spoke into his comm link. “Pull back, boys, we’re done here.”

“What the hell are we supposed to do about this, Colonel?” asked his lieutenant uneasily. His voice blended fascination with dismay as he walked over to Lady Vorpatril and lifted her gown high. She had gained weight, these last two months; her chin and breasts were rounded, thighs thickened, belly padded out. He poked a curious finger deep into that soft white flesh. She stood silent, trembling, face on fire with rage at his liberty and eyes glistening dark with tears of fear. “Our orders are to kill the lord and the heir. It doesn’t say her. Are we supposed to sit around and wait? Squeeze? Cut her open? Or,” his voice went persuasive, “maybe just take her back to HQ?”

The guard holding her from behind grinned and ground his hips into her buttocks, mock—thrusts of unmistakable meaning. “We don’t have to take her straight back, do we? I mean, this is Vor meat. What a chance.”

The colonel stared at him, and spat disgust. “Corporal, you’re perverted.”

Cordelia realized with a shock that Bothari’s riveted attention to the scene before them was no longer tactical. He was deeply aroused. His eyes seemed to glaze as she watched; his lips parted.

The guard colonel pocketed his comm link, and drew his nerve disruptor. “No.” He shook his head. “We make this quick and clean. Step aside, Corporal.”

Strange mercies …

The guard expertly popped Alys’s knees and shoved her down, stepping back. Her hands flung out to the pavement, too late to save her swollen belly from a hard smack. Padma Vorpatril moaned through his fast-penta haze. The guard colonel raised his nerve disruptor and hesitated, as if uncertain whether to aim it at her head or torso.

“Kill them,” Cordelia hissed in Bothari’s ear, jerked out her stunner, and fired.

Bothari snapped not only awake, but over into some berserker mode; his nerve disruptor bolt hit the guard colonel at the same moment as Cordelias stunner beam did, though she had drawn first. Then he was moving, a dark blur leaping behind a parked vehicle. He snapped off shots, blue crackles that electrified the air; two more guards fell as the rest took cover behind their groundcars.

Alys Vorpatril, still on the pavement, curled up in a tight ball, trying to cover her abdomen with her arms and legs. Padma Vorpatril, penta-drunk, staggered bewilderedly toward her, arms out, apparently with some similar idea in mind. The guard lieutenant, rolling on the pavement toward cover, aimed his nerve disruptor at the distraught man.

The guard lieutenant’s pause for accuracy was fatal; Droushnakovi’s nerve disruptor cross-fire and Cordelias stunner beam intersected upon his body—a millisecond too late. His nerve disruptor bolt took Padma Vorpatril squarely in the back of his head. Blue sparks danced, dark hair sparked orange, and Padma’s body arced in a violent convulsion and fell twitching. Alys Vorpatril wailed, a short sharp cry cut off by a gasp. On her hands and knees, she seemed momentarily frozen between trying to crawl toward him, or away.

Droushnakovi’s cross-fire vantage was perfect. The last guard was killed while still trying to raise the canopy of the armored groundcar. A driver, shielded inside the second vehicle, prudently chose to try and speed away. Koudelka’s plasma arc bolt, set on high power, blasted into the groundcar as it accelerated past the corner. It skidded wildly, dragging an edge and trailing sparks, and crashed into the side of a brick building.

Yes, and didn’t my whole strategy for this mission turn on our staying invisible? Cordelia thought dizzily, and ran forward. She and Droushnakovi reached Alys Vorpatril at the same moment; together they hoisted the shuddering woman to her feet.

“We have to get out of here,” said Bothari, rising from his firing-crouch and coming toward them.

“No shit,” agreed Koudelka, limping up and staring around at the sudden and spectacular carnage. The street was amazingly quiet. Not for long, Cordelia suspected.

“This way.” Bothari pointed up an alley, narrow and dark. “Run.”

“Shouldn’t we try to take that car?” Cordelia gestured to the body-draped vehicle.

“No. Traceable. And it can’t fit where we’re going.”

Cordelia was not sure if the wild-faced, weeping Alys was able to run anywhere, but she stuck her stunner back in her waistband and took one of the pregnant woman’s arms. Drou took the other, and together they guided her in the sergeant’s wake. At least Koudelka was no longer the slowest of the party.

Alys was crying, yet not hysterical; she glanced only once over her shoulder at her husband’s body, then concentrated grimly on trying to run. She did not run well. She was hopelessly unbalanced, her arms wrapping her belly in an attempt to take up the shocks of her heavy footsteps. “Cordelia,” she gasped. An acknowledgment of recognition; there was no time or breath for demands of explanation.

They had not lurched more than three blocks when Cordelia began to hear sirens from the area they were fleeing. But Bothari seemed controlled again, unpanicked. They traversed another narrow alley, and Cordelia realized they had crossed into a region of the city with no streetlights, or indeed any lights at all. Her eyes strained in the misty shadows.

Alys stopped suddenly, and Cordelia skidded to a halt, almost jerking the woman off her feet. Alys stood for half a minute, bent over, gasping.

Cordelia realized that beneath its deceptive padding of fat, Alys’s abdomen was hard as a rock; the back of her robe was soaking wet. “Are you going into labor?” she asked. She didn’t know why she made that a question, the answer was obvious.

“This has been going on—for a day and a half,” Alys blurted. She seemed unable to straighten. “I think my water broke back there, when that bastard knocked me down. Unless it’s blood—should have passed out by now, if all that was blood—it hurts so much worse, now… .” Her breath slowed; she pulled her shoulders back with effort.

“How much longer?” asked Kou in alarm.

“How should I know? I’ve never done this before. Your guess is as good as mine,” Lady Vorpatril snapped. Hot anger to warm cold fear. It wasn’t enough warmth, a candle against a blizzard.

“Not much longer, I’d say,” came Bothari’s voice out of the dark. “We’d better go to ground. Come on.”

Lady Vorpatril could no longer run, but managed a rapid waddle, stopping helplessly every two minutes. Then every one minute.

“Not going to make it all the way,” muttered Bothari. “Wait here.” He disappeared up a side—alley? The passages all seemed alleys here, cold and stinking, much too narrow for groundcars. They had passed exactly two people in the maze, huddled to one side of a passage in a heap, and stepped carefully around them.

“Can you do anything to, like, hold back?” asked Kou, watching Lady Vorpatril double over again. “We ought to … try and get a doctor or something.”

“That’s what that idiot Padma went out for,” Alys ground out. “I begged him not to go … oh, God!” After another moment she added, in a surprisingly conversational tone, “The next time you’re vomiting your guts out, Kou, let me suggest you just close your mouth and swallow hard … it’s not exactly a voluntary reflex!” She straightened again, shivering violently.

“She doesn’t need a doctor, she needs a flat spot,” Bothari spoke from the shadows. “This way.”

He led them a short distance to a wooden door, formerly nailed shut in an ancient solid stuccoed wall. Judging from the fresh splinters, he’d just kicked it open. Once inside, with the door pulled tight-shut again, Droushnakovi at last dared pull a hand-light from the satchel. It illuminated a small, empty, dirty room. Bothari swiftly prowled its perimeters. Two inner doors had been broken open long ago, but beyond them all was soundless and lightless and apparently deserted. “It’ll have to do,” said Bothari.

Cordelia wondered what the hell to do next. She knew all about placental transfers and surgical sections now, but for so-called normal births she had only theory to go on. Alys Vorpatril probably had even less grasp of the biology, Drou less still, and Kou was downright useless. “Has anyone here ever actually been in on one of these, before?”

“Not I,” muttered Alys. Their looks met in rather too clear an understanding.

“You’re not alone,” said Cordelia stoutly. Confidence should lead to relaxation, should lead to something. “We’ll all help.”

Bothari said—oddly reluctantly—”My mother used to do a spot of midwifery. Sometimes she’d drag me along to help. There’s not that much to it.”

Cordelia controlled her brows. That was the first time she’d heard the sergeant say word one about either of his parents.

The sergeant sighed, clearly realizing from their array of looks that he’d just put himself in charge. “Lend me your jacket, Kou.”

Koudelka divested the garment gallantly, and made to wrap it around the shaking Lady Vorpatril. He looked a little more dismayed when the sergeant put his own jacket around Lady Vorpatril’s shoulders, then made her lie down on the floor and spread Koudelka’s jacket under her hips. She looked less pale, lying down, less like she was about to pass out. But her breath stopped, then she cried out, as her abdominal muscles locked again.

“Stay with me, Lady Vorkosigan,” Bothari murmured to Cordelia. For what? Cordelia wondered, then realized why as he knelt and gently pushed up Alys Vorpatril’s nightgown. He wants me for a control mechanism. But the killing seemed to have bled off that horrifying wave of lust that had so distorted his face, back in the street. His gaze now was only normally interested. Fortunately, Alys Vorpatril was too self-absorbed to notice that Bothari’s attempt at an expression of medical coolness was not wholly successful.

“Baby’s head’s not showing yet,” he reported. “But soon.”

Another spasm, and he looked around vaguely and added, “I don’t think you’d better scream, Lady Vorpatril. They’ll be looking by now.”

She nodded understanding, and waved a desperate hand; Drou, catching on, rolled up a bit of cloth into a rag rope, and gave it to her to bite.

And so the tableau hung, for spasm after uterine spasm. Alys looked utterly wrung, crying very quietly, unable to stop her body’s repeated attempts to turn itself inside out long enough to catch either breath or balance. The baby’s head crowned, dark haired, but seemed unable to go further.

“How long is this supposed to take?” asked Kou, in a voice that tried to sound measured, but came out very worried.

“I think he likes it where he is,” said Bothari. “Doesn’t want to come out in the cold.” This joke actually got through to Alys; her sobbing breath didn’t change, but her eyes flashed in a moment of gratitude. Bothari crouched, frowned judiciously, hunkered around to her side, placed a big hand on her belly, and waited for the next spasm. Then he leaned.

The infant’s head popped out, between Lady Vorpatril’s bloody thighs, quick as that.

“There,” said the sergeant, sounding rather satisfied. Koudelka looked thoroughly impressed.

Cordelia caught the head between her hands, and eased the body out with the next contraction. The baby boy coughed twice, sneezed like a kitten in the awed silence, inhaled, grew pinker, and emitted a nerve—shattering wail. Cordelia nearly dropped him.

Bothari swore at the noise. “Give me your swordstick, Kou.”

Lady Vorpatril looked up wildly. “No! Give him back to me, I’ll make him be quiet!”

“Wasn’t what I had in mind,” said Bothari with some dignity. “Though it’s an idea,” he added as the wails went on. He pulled out the plasma arc and heated the sword briefly, on low power. Sterilizing it, Cordelia realized.

Placenta followed cord on the next contraction, a messy heap on Kou’s jacket. She stared with covert fascination at the spent version of the supportive organ that had been of so much concern in her own case. Time. This rescue’s taken so much time. What are Miles’s chances down to now? Had she just traded her son’s life for little Ivan’s? Not-so-little Ivan, actually, no wonder he’d given his mother so much trouble. Alys must be blessed with an unusually wide pelvic arch, or she’d never have made it though this nightmare night alive.

After the cord drained white, Bothari cut it with the sterilized blade, and Cordelia self-knotted the rubbery thing as best she could. She mopped off the baby and wrapped him in their spare clean shirt, and handed him at last into Alys’s outstretched arms.

Alys looked at the baby and began crying again muffled sobs. “Padma said … I’d have the best doctors’ Padma said … there’d be no pain. Padma said he’d stay with me … damn you, Padma!” She clutched Padma’s son to her. In an altered tone of mild surprise, she added “Ow!” Infant mouth had found her breast, and apparently had a grip like a barracuda.

“Good reflexes,” observed Bothari.