Captain Vorpatril's Alliance

Chapter Twenty-Four

Tej had the impression, that afternoon, that ImpSec would have preferred to drop a giant, concealing tarp over their whole two-block area of Vorbarr Sultana, but it was much too late. Between the dramatic—not to mention noisy, muddy, and public—engineering rescue, the rumors of almost-stolen treasure, crime lords, off-world invasion, secret bombings, ugly kidnappings of beautiful women, smugglers, and much, much more, all playing out in the Eye of the Imperium that was the Old Town capital—and all of it overtopped by the swallowing of one of the most notorious structures on the planet by the planet—about the only thing the Barrayaran government managed to keep a lid on was the details of the Mycoborer itself.

“The Arquas had better hope Gregor’s damage-control people succeed, on that one,” Ivan Xav advised Tej. “All the rest could just get them jailed. Barrayar is still traumatized from some of the Cetagandan weaponized biologicals and chemical warfare experiments during the Occupation. The news that you all have managed to release a mutant alien fungus into our biosphere could get you torn limb from limb. The Dismemberment of Mad Emperor Yuri would be nothing to it. The angry mobs would fill the city. They’d tear the pieces to pieces. And the military couldn’t stop them because most of the military would be joining them.”

“But the Mycoborer was from Earth,” Tej offered hesitantly. “Not Cetagandan at all. Old Earth is practically the definition of not alien. And Grandmama said it was safe.”

“Big, big heaving mobs,” said Ivan Xav. “As far as the eye can see.”

Simon Illyan nodded in reluctant agreement.

The Arqua clan was released from ImpMil that evening with clean bills of health, and returned not to their hotel but to an empty apartment a few floors down from Lady Alys’s penthouse. Uniformed ImpSec guards stood at the foyer doors, with more patrolling downstairs. The Arquas’ things, minus all communications devices, arrived much later, transported from their hotel after a detour for close examination by whatever high-clearance security people could be spared at present. Ivan Xav wondered aloud just how many Winterfair leaves had been summarily cancelled over this, and indicated that this grudge, too, would be added on the debit side of the House Cordonah ledger, at least in the dark matter column.

They were not yet officially arrested, though Tej heard that Ser Imola had been, satisfactorily. The legal phrase for their own state was detained at the Emperor’s pleasure, a term that had Pidge wrinkling her nose and, conducted by an impassive sentry, ascending to Lady Alys’s flat to look it up. Ivan Xav explained, morosely, that it would more accurately be described as detained at the Emperor’s displeasure. But it seemed it trumped, at least temporarily, their visa termination, though Tej gathered that deportation on that point could be brought back into play at any time.

Requests for media interviews penetrated despite all the sequestration.

Pidge said hesitantly, “It might be a way to start to put a good spin on all this. Pave the way for our defense.”

“I,” said Lady ghem Estif austerely, “would be more than happy to give this benighted world a piece of my mind.”

Baron and Baronne Cordonah looked at each other.

“No interviews,” said the Baronne. “Not one word.”

“Right,” sighed Dada.

Evacuation of critical equipment and files continued out the roof of ImpSec HQ, under tight military escort, to be temporarily relocated in an assortment of nearby government buildings appropriated for this emergency. Illyan, wincing at the pictures in passing, muttered only, “God, but the evidence rooms are going to be a bitch. When they get down to them.”

The edifice’s on-going descent, it was said, had slowed to an almost imperceptible rate. But by midnight, Lord Dono the Architect’s masterpiece had sunk to the fourth floor.

Simon kept his appointment the next day with Emperor Gregor. He returned over an hour late.

“It is not often,” he remarked, either to Lady Alys or the air generally, it was hard to tell, “that Gregor permits himself the self-indulgence of sarcasm. I could see that it was very relieving for him.” With an added mutter of, “We live to serve,” he disappeared alone into his study and did not come out till dinner.

When the Imperial Accounting Office auditors inventorying the old Cetagandan bunker—under the general direction and command of Commodore Duv Galeni, pulled off his departmental duties for the special assignment—reached an estimate of eleven hundred million marks, they stopped publicly reporting.

“What,” said Pidge, peering over Ivan Xav’s shoulder, “is an Imperial Court of Inquiry”—she squinted—“most secret?”

“You could think of it as a subpoena,” said Ivan Xav. “With fangs. But it would be…be…”

“A charming understatement?” suggested Tej, peering over his other shoulder.

“No,” said Ivan Xav, in a distant tone, “not charming…”

Ivan had looked forward to escorting Tej on her first trip to the Imperial Residence, but not under these circumstances. She stared up apprehensively at the sprawling pile, a great irregular rectangle of four-to-six-story-high wings with odd inner links, in style a bit like Vorkosigan House bloated by a factor of four but with modern additions dating back to one post-war rebuild or another. The East Portico was one of the older, more ornate and impressive entrances. Mamere’s groundcar was just finishing disgorging her and Simon and the senior Arquas (and one ghem Estif) as Ivan pulled up behind it in his two-seater; they caught up with the group at the double doors, to be herded through by Gregor’s own majordomo. The man’s expression this morning was grim and suspicious, though as he caught sight of Simon it took refuge in very, very blank. Ivan won grim and annoyed.

Followed by a pair of Residence guards, to pick off stragglers presumably, the majordomo led around and, unusually, down. Ivan had not often seen this subterranean section of the Residence, devoted to a pocket of practical conference rooms, as it was never open during the assorted public ceremonies or festivities, such as the annual Imperial Winterfair Ball coming up soon. The chamber into which they were gated felt more like a small, if unusually well-appointed, university lecture hall than a courtroom. At the front was a lectern and a comconsole table, and more seats were arrayed in a semi-circle of gently ascending rows. It might have held forty people in a crush. Which this was apparently not to be, despite the milling other-Arquas-plus-Byerly who had arrived just before them. A table at the side was set up with, mercifully, coffee, teas, and an assortment of pastries; Ivan wasn’t sure if it represented hospitality or a sign that this was going to be a very long session.

Ivan made certain Tej had coffee with cream—she declined the pastries with a wan smile, not a good sign—and edged over to By. “Did you get a personal invitation, or are you here as an ImpSec plainclothes guard?” he muttered.

“Both,” By muttered back. “Courtesy of Gregor and Allegre. Though I’ve had my own debriefings with ImpSec.”

“Plural? They had time?”

“Oh, I’m special this week.” By grimaced. “And not in a good way. I told them I needed backup—never mind.”

And then it was time for everyone to hastily put down their drinks and swallow their last bites as the majordomo announced simply, “Your attention, for Emperor Gregor Vorbarra.”

Ivan, after much dithering, had chosen a good suit instead of his military dress greens for this; Gregor, curiously, had made a similar choice, severe in dark blue. He was trailed by his senior armsman and his chief secretary, who went to set things up at the lectern. Gregor accepted assorted uncertain head-ducks with a wave of his hand that seemed to say, Yes, but not yet; the armsman hurried to supply him with coffee and, Ivan saw with a twinge of guilt, a couple of painkiller tablets, which he swigged down before turning to take command of the front of the room. The rest were directed to seats: the seniors in the front row, along with Pidge, Tej, and Ivan at the end where he could see everyone without craning his neck, much; and Byerly and the remainder—Rish, Star, Pearl, Emerald, Amiri and Jet—in the next. The armsman took up a parade rest at the side of the room where he could keep an eye on everyone; the secretary seated himself at the comconsole table, preparing to record everything.

Gregor set down his coffee on the lectern and turned to stare unamiably out over his captive audience.

“There are a number of interlocking jurisdictions and issues, legal and practical, involved in last weekend’s events in my twice-capital. First are the questions of crimes, misdemeanors, and the creation of public hazards in the city of Vorbarr Sultana and the Vorbarra District. For this, the highest legal venue is the Vorbarra District Count’s Court, of which I am, as Count Vorbarra, senior judge and final arbiter. Next, what might be construed as an attack on a critical Imperial military installation, for which, as Commander-in-Chief of the Barrayaran Military Service, I am again the ultimate authority. And finally, there are matters involving the welfare of the Imperium as a whole, for which, as Emperor, I am—again—finally responsible.

“It is my intention to stack up all of these jurisdictions”—he didn’t say, in one big heap, but Ivan fancied he could hear it—“and get through the major issues this morning all at once. In short, I offer you a Star Chamber. You have a choice whether to accept this offer and my authority, and abide by the outcome, or not. You may have a moment to consult among yourselves before you reply.”

Pidge rose and darted to the senior Arquas; Gregor went aside for more coffee and a bite of pastry. Ivan could only think, Yes, for the love of mercy get your blood sugar up, sire. He joined the huddle. Simon and Mamere, he noted, stayed seated.

Pidge was saying, “If we want to hold off retribution for as long as possible with delaying actions, now is our chance. You know I had the sequence of court fights all mapped out—”

“If I may advise?” said Ivan, pitching his voice low. Shiv put out a hand to quell Pidge, who scowled at the interruption.

“Please do,” said the Baronne.

“About ten thousand people are lined up behind you competing for a slice of Gregor’s time, but he’s offering you this morning on a platter. He won’t make that offer twice. Also, his clothes.”

“What about them?” asked Shiv, his heavy face dark in bafflement.

“Signal. If he’d planned to go after you about the local issues—including that damned Mycoborer—he’d have come dressed in his Vorbarra House black-and-silver. If he meant to crush you for what you did to his ImpSec headquarters, he’d be in his Service dress greens. But he’s wearing his politician-suit, instead. That means he wants something he doesn’t already have. That means there may be the offer of what you might call a deal, depending. If you don’t waste his time, and if you don’t piss him off.”

“How does one piss him off?” asked Shiv, eyes narrowing.

“Well, wasting his time would be a good way to start.”

“And how can you tell?” asked Tej, with an anxious glance past his shoulder at the podium. “If he’s pissed off, I mean.”

“Um…” Ivan hesitated. “You all probably can’t. But ask me.”

He backed away, to give the Arquas one last chance to confer privately. To his intense relief, Shiv turned and stated, “House Cordonah chooses to abide by the authority of this Star Chamber.”

Lady Alys didn’t say a word, but her hand pressed to her lips looked to Ivan like hope rewarded. Which made him really wonder what all those all-senior-female confabs among Moira, Udine, and Alys had covered, these past few days.

The secretary glanced at a signal from his wristcom, then rose to go to the chamber door and receive from the majordomo a new delegation of men. Ivan recognized them all.

Duv Galeni was wearing his dress greens, all the polished Imperial officer this morning; General Allegre likewise, as was Colonel Otto, too secure in his expertise to be daunted by his surroundings, and entirely mud-free. Equally secure in his expertise, not to mention his ego, was Dr. Vaughn Weddell from the Imperial Science Institute, one of their major bio-boffins—molecular, xeno, genetic, all of the above. He was followed by I.S.I. Senior Administrator Susan Allegre, possibly there as his handler, as he usually needed one, possibly to track and gate any other demands on the Institute that might emerge this morning; at any rate, when they were directed to seats, she went with Weddell and not her husband.

When the room had settled once more, Gregor continued, “There are two possible approaches to solving a dilemma, in justice or elsewhere; begin with the facts, and follow out their logic where it leads one, or begin with the desired outcome, and reason backward to the necessary steps to achieve it. We shall see if it is possible to do both, and meet in the middle. To begin at the beginning, with some anchoring facts—Commodore Galeni, were you able to find out how the information about the Cetagandan bunker and its contents were first lost to ImpSec? And the source of Sergeant Abelard and his bomb? We know his fate.”

“Yes, sire. I made considerable progress on both questions yesterday and last night.”

Since his last report, in other words, so some of this was going to be new to Gregor as well. A wave of the emperor’s hand directed Duv to the front; Gregor leaned on the podium, and Duv took up a practiced lecturer’s stance beside the comconsole table. His eye took in his audience almost as curiously as his audience’s eyes took in him.

“In examining what documents and records remain from the construction of ImpSec Headquarters, almost eighty years ago, I was able to trace the officer who signed off on the bunker inspection, a Captain Geo Pharos. He was ImpSec: he had as his listed assistant a sergeant of engineers, Vlad Norman. One month later, both men, along with three civilian employees, were killed in that on-site construction accident where, according to the subsequent engineering reports, two floors in progress collapsed due to incorrect-to-spec sizing and improper installation of the bracing connectors. Buggered to fit, was the, er, engineering term underlined in the holograph report. Twice.”

In the third row, Colonel Otto, brows rising with keen interest, nodded; Galeni cast him an acknowledging sort of analyst’s salute.

Galeni continued, “For which unauthorized shortcut Emperor Yuri, on his architect’s recommendation, had the construction boss hanged, and bracing on the girders and connectors throughout triply reinforced, but that’s another tale.

“Ah, those were the days,” muttered Otto; Ivan couldn’t tell if it was with irony or approval.

“There are two possible explanations for the lapse at the time in revealing the, if I may say it, extraordinary contents of that bunker. One, Pharos and Norman may have simply blown off the inspection, due to laziness or time pressures, assuming that the then-thirty-year-old bunker held nothing of interest or danger. The project was already over budget and late—hence, apparently, the business with the girder connections—so this hypothesis cannot be totally ruled out. Or two, that they discovered the contents, but chose to conceal the news hoping to come back secretly later and make some private profit for themselves. Norman’s prior military records are unexceptionable, but the temptation, as we have discovered, was large. Pharos has possibilities in this direction—things around Yuri were already getting worrisome by then, which he would have been in position to see at close range, so he might have been driven to this alternate method of providing for his future by either greed or fear. Or both, of course.”

“Do you have a favored explanation yet?” inquired Gregor.

Galeni shook his head. “The most interesting question of history is always, What were these people thinking? But I’m afraid it’s often also the most elusive. Unless some new documentation surfaces in my searches, that’s as far as I can honestly take the tale.”

“Very good,” said Gregor, meaning, probably, a slightly disappointed Very well. “And Abelard? I should mention, in a personal communication I received from the Viceroy of Sergyar last night, Aral says he doesn’t remember ever ordering anyone to blow up Vordarian’s ImpSec building. Such a decision ought to have made it up to his level, he said, but, in the confusion of the times, it’s perfectly possible it didn’t. And, ah, a few other remarks about excessive initiative in subordinates, but they’re not pertinent here.”

Galeni had come alert, but now his shoulders slumped slightly. “I was hoping he could clarify—oh, well. At least we know it couldn’t have been ordered by Negri against Vordarian, because Negri was dead on the first day.”

Illyan cleared his throat, and spoke up. “Actually, some such beyond-the-grave sleeper order from Chief Negri would have been perfectly possible. Back then.” His hand and Lady Alys’s found each other, down between their seats.

Galeni appeared to suffer a brief pang from having what might have been his only certainty plucked from him. “Ah. Well. In that case. Abelard had an exemplary record prior to the Pretendership. That…gets us no forwarder, because it’s quite clear that many officers and men at the time did honestly think Vordarian might be the best thing for Barrayar.”

“Hence Regent Vorkosigan’s generous pardons, after,” Gregor put in.

Galeni nodded warily. “Abelard was a senior guard on ImpSec HQ itself; he certainly knew the territory he was, er, under. His records break off abruptly at the start of the hostilities, and don’t take up again till after, during the cleanup, when he was finally listed as missing. Missing, period, mind you—neither ‘in action’ nor ‘absent without leave.’ He’s certainly not accused of desertion. At this point, I would want to turn his remains and those of his equipment over to a forensic pathologist, to look for any other physical clues—the nature of the bomb or the construction of the tunnel in which he was found might have helped—but, ah.”

“Indeed,” sighed Gregor, with a less-than-pleased glance at the Arquas assembled.

“Is that pissed?” Tej whispered in Ivan’s ear.

“Not yet,” he whispered back. “Sh.”

“So what’s your best guess?” said Gregor. “As a former ImpSec analyst.”

Galeni suppressed a pained look. Ivan wondered if he was reciting, Accuracy, brevity, clarity to himself, possibly with an added, pick the best two out of three. “My feeling”—and his emphasis suggested his low opinion of that word—“was that he was probably one of the many men cut off from their units, who re-sorted themselves as they could find each other, and prosecuted the war as best they could on their own. That still doesn’t prove for which side. Given more time, my next suggested direction of inquiry would be to send field agents to locate as many of his old mates still alive as we could, and interview them.”

Ivan glanced back at Allegre; his slight wince suggested he was praying, Please Gregor, not this week.

Gregor may have heard that prayer; in any case, he went on. “And how is emptying the bunker coming along?”

Pidge shot to her feet. “May I note a point of purely Barrayaran law. Your, er…sir.” She’d at least retained Ivan’s hasty instruction, No, don’t call him sire; he’s not your liege-lord, so he’s not your sire. In any case, Gregor granted her a curt nod. She went on, “Barrayaran law supports the claim of a ten-percent finder’s fee for lost items, including historical artifacts confiscated by District or the Imperial governments.”

“Hell, Pidge, that’s meant for lost wallets,” muttered Ivan, under his breath. He thought only Tej heard him, by the squeeze on his arm, but Pidge glanced his way in irritation before she went on more firmly.

“House Cordonah, jointly, wishes to put in such a claim upon the contents of Lady ghem Estif’s old workplace. Because without us, it would never have been found.”

“At this time,” said Illyan, not quite in an undervoice.

“Intact,” countered Pidge. “Given yet more time, who knows who else might have found and raided it before you people ever got around to looking?”

Gregor held up a palm. “I am aware of the precedent, Baronette. We will return to the point later.”

Collective or Imperial We? In any case, Pidge, in a moment of blessed acumen, nodded and sat down.

Gregor said, “Continue, please, Commodore.”

Galeni gave a short nod. “I’ve placed Professora Helen Vorthys and her picked team of conservators in charge of all papers, documents, and data devices, the last of which we cleared out yesterday and sent to a secured location at the Imperial University. Sorting and preservation has only just started.”

Gregor waved a hand, And…?

“Our best guess of the value of the rest of the items inventoried and removed so far—as of this morning; I checked on the way here—is”—Galeni cleared his throat, unaccountably dry—“three point nine billion marks.”

Make that accountably dry, Ivan corrected his observation. Gregor, who had hitched himself up on the edge of the comconsole table, nearly fell off it. Shiv Arqua rubbed his forehead, his face screwing up like a man suffering from the sharpest twinge of existential pain in history.

“Almost four billion marks, Duv?” choked Gregor. “Really?”

“So far. We hope to have cleared the upper floor by the end of the week. I have absolutely no idea what we’ll find on the lower one.”

“More of the same, as I recall,” murmured Lady ghem Estif.

Silence fell throughout the room, as everyone present paused for a bit of simple arithmetic.

“I would note in passing,” observed Duv, recovering his driest professorial tones, “that the current value of the art and artifacts is very much higher that the, what one might call street value, would have been a hundred years ago. Appreciation, in both senses. Yet quite a number of people must have known what was in there, because it certainly took more than one man to fill it up. I really have no idea why no Cetagandan entrepreneur has been back since.”

Lady ghem Estif gave a muffled sniff, dulcetly, and waited.

Gregor opened his hand to her, a bit ironically. “Enlighten us, milady, if you please.”

“Because most of the items were the property of the ruling ghem-junta, and most of the ghem-junta were executed upon their return to Eta Ceta,” said Lady ghem Estif. She added, “They had planned to be back in person, of course.”

Ivan had no idea if it was the historian or the security analyst ascendant in his hungry tones, but Duv said, “I do hope you’ll have time to chat with me later, Lady ghem Estif.”

She held up her own hands, palm out, in a gesture that had little to do with surrender. “That will not be up to me.”

“Thank you, Commodore Galeni, that will do for now,” said Gregor. “Colonel Otto, do you have a, perhaps, fuller and more detailed account than your preliminary one of why my Imperial Security building is now largely an underground installation? From a technical perspective.”

Since Ivan recalled, among the cries coming from the command post the other day, some anguished engineering bellows of It sank! It sank! The sucker just sank! he suspected Otto did.

Galeni stood down and Otto came up.

“Sire.” His nod to Gregor was very respectful; his glower at the Arquas, not. “We’re still modifying details of our picture as new data come in, but I think what I have here is a correct general outline.” He shoved a data chip into the read-slot on the comconsole table; a large-scale, three-dimensional image in outlines of colored light sprang into view above the vid plate.

Otto gestured with a lightstick. “Ground-lines in dark brown, surrounding buildings in light brown. ImpSec building in green.” All six floors and the several subbasements, a boxy cage of cold-light-hued lines. “The bunker.” Another short stack of boxes in blue, cattycorner to the one in green. “The old storm sewer.” A translucent tube of red light, running at a diagonal far under the street. “We suspect Sergeant Abelard’s old tunnel might have had its start-point from the storm sewer, by the way. It’s possible that a patch there might have provided a weak point”—a darker red blob, with uncertain dotted outlines—“that blew out when the bomb”—an ominous purple pinpoint, accurately placed as far as Ivan could tell—“went off.”

“As much of the remaining Mycoborer tunnels as we could map.” Starting as a solid yellow tube descending from the garage under the office building across the back corner; a second, solid end snaking back from the vestibule hugged up next to the bunker.

“Our current best guess of what existed in between the two ends prior to the bomb blast.” Dotted yellow outlines, branching and re-branching directly under the ImpSec subbasements.

“The Mycoborer walls appear to cure very hard, strong in compression but weak in tension, and brittle. At some point during the firefight between the criminals and the ImpSec guards who pursued them underground, someone’s stray stunner beam struck the old bomb on the tunnel floor, setting it off.” Scrupulously, Otto’s picture did not suggest whose stunner this triggering energy pulse came from. A flare of purple light filled the tunnel network. “The air and gasses in the tunnels transmitted a strong concussion to the walls throughout; we don’t yet know if there was further chemical reaction. The stretching in tension cracked and in some places shattered the walls, both visible and micro cracks. At the same time, the weak portion of the storm sewer abutting or closely abutting the Mycoborer tunnel blew out, a section of the drain just down from the breach collapsed, the water so dammed diverted through the breach, and the shattered tunnel began to rapidly fill. Water not being compressible, this actually helped keep the network from collapsing for quite some time. Water from the on-going heavy rain drainage further penetrated and weakened the cracked walls, and began mixing under considerable pressure with the formerly dry and solid subsoil. In effect, the branching Mycoborer tunnel turned into a giant sponge under the ImpSec Headquarters.” A bulky, irregular region under the green cage filled with red light. “The pressure mounted.” The red light grew more intense; the sponge swelled.

Both Illyan and Allegre had exactly the same expressions of horrified fascination on their faces, Ivan noted in a brief look around.

“At the time that my engineers dug down to the bunker roof with grav-lifters”—a white circle appeared on the ground level of the park, and grew downward to the blue box in a neat cone—“possibly at the moment that we cut through the roof, the storm sewer unplugged itself. I suspect, but can’t prove yet, that the vibrations from our rescue work might have helped that along. In any case, the sewer unplugged and began draining the Mycoborer tunnel network of what was now a hell of a lot of liquid mud. The ImpSec building directly above acted as a giant weight, compressing the sponge and expressing its contents out the newly opened exit channel.”

Pulses of red light marched down the storm sewer.

“And the rest”—Otto sighed—“we all witnessed.” Slowly, as the red sponge flattened, its filaments collapsing, the green cage began to sink below the brown ground lines.

“How far down d’you think we’ll end up?” asked General Allegre, from his back row.

“Not much farther, I think. A man should just about be able to jump off the roof to the ground. Without breaking his legs, that is.”

A little silence followed this word-picture. If Allegre contemplated suicide over all of this, he was going to have to find another method than the traditional parapet, Ivan reflected. Gregor stirred himself and broke the hypnotized hush with, “Thank you, Colonel Otto, that was very clear.”

“Thank you, sire. But the big question I want answered”—he pointed to the sewer line—“we know damned well that bits of Mycoborer tunnel walls had to have been mixed with the mud. Which has mostly ended up in the river. What’s it doing downstream?” His glare at the Arquas was impartial, but far from impassive.

“For the answer to that question, I hope Dr. Weddell will have more information than this time yesterday. Doctor?” At Gregor’s gesture, Otto stood down and Weddell took his place.

Weddell was a distinguished-looking researcher in his sixties. His past, Ivan had reason to know, was considerably more speckled than his appearance would suggest, but that didn’t make him less able to do his job. Possibly the reverse.

Weddell cleared his throat, nervously. “Well, sire. As we all know, absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. Nevertheless, my field teams have not yet found live Mycoborer cells downstream from the capital. We have, on the other hand, positively identified a few fragments of former tunnel wall, and if the one is present the other should be, too. One bright spot—the live cells we’ve been studying do not appear to like an environment of salt water. So if any reach the sea, it is unlikely they will survive there.”

“Told you that,” murmured Lady ghem Estif. “Three days ago.” Weddell gave her a rather driven look.

“While I do strongly recommend we continue to monitor, it is my opinion that the Mycoborer is less a hazard than several other biological nightmares you Barrayarans have lived with for years, not excepting this planet’s own native ecosystem. Prudence yes, panic no. Add it to the list and go on, I’d say.”

Tej, listening intently, blinked. “Hey,” she whispered to Ivan. “That fellow’s a Jacksonian. Or he was.”

“I know,” Ivan whispered back. “So does Gregor. Don’t tell anyone else.”

Gregor eyed Weddell. “Would you, personally, today, drink water taken from the river downstream of Vorbarr Sultana?” In his present mood Gregor was not above personally testing that very question, Ivan suspected. On Weddell, that was. Did he have a liter bottle tucked away behind the podium?

“Yes,” said Weddell, steadily, “if it was first boiled to destroy all the eighteen other potentially lethal pathogens usually present. Normal local water treatment should protect your subjects.” And anyone stupid enough to drink untreated water on this planet deserved their removal from the gene pool? Weddell, in Ivan’s prior experience of the man, was perfectly capable of thinking just that, but also smart enough not to say so. Here, at any rate.

Gregor turned his head. “Dr. Allegre, has that assertion about the water treatment been tested?”

She sat up and responded, “It…could easily be done. It sounds plausible.”

“In other words, no. Please have your people conduct appropriate tests immediately, and report back as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sire.” She bent her head to her wristcom.

“Very well, Dr. Weddell. Continue to monitor closely, yes.” Gregor waved him back to his seat by the administrator; some heads-together conversation seemed to go, Good, you didn’t screw up, and So how about our funding? Otto looked as if he didn’t believe a word of it; Dr. Allegre would presumably pacify the equally dubious General Allegre, later.

Gregor stared at the rows of Arquas; the Arquas stared back. Shiv did impassive very well indeed. Udine threaded her fingers through her short hair. Lady ghem Estif looked willing to match her one-hundred-and-thirty years against anything Barrayar could throw at her.

“Now—in my third hat—”

But not talking through it, no, not Gregor…

“—we come to larger Imperial concerns.”

Shiv’s dark eyes narrowed in a sudden intensity to nearly match Gregor’s.

“As you should realize, Barrayar has no practical interest in aggressive ventures in Jacksonian local space. But as you should be even more keenly aware, all bets are off if the Cetagandan Empire makes such a move, directly or through puppets, to gain control of your wormhole exits. My analysts posit that House Prestene is currently such a puppet, contemplating an attempt on a wormhole monopoly.”

Shiv rumbled, “Other House alliances, however temporary, have traditionally resisted such attempts. Repeatedly.”

Gregor returned, levelly, “Two down, three to go.”

Shiv shrugged. “Fell is a tough nut to crack.”

“Baron Fell is still very aged. At last report.”

Udine murmured, “True.”

Gregor didn’t blink. “As it happens, Barrayar could use an ally in the Whole. One ally would in fact be better than five, due to, ah, reciprocal destabilization issues viz Cetaganda. For which a covert ally would be even more use.”

“For that ten-percent finder’s fee,” mused Shiv, “you might find more than one House for sale.”

“Yes, but no amount of money can make one stay bought. Who does not freely choose to.”

“Hm.”

Gregor held up a finger. “Ten percent—less expenses.”

Shiv’s brows rose in inquiry.

“By some miracle,” Gregor continued, “there was no loss of life in last weekend’s disasters.”

“Are you saying you wouldn’t trade in lives?”

Gregor gave him a cool look. “On the contrary. I trade in lives every day. They are the coin in which Barrayar has paid for my mistakes since I was twenty years old. But it does mean that the first item on the deductions list will not be generous survivors’ pensions.”

“I see,” said Shiv, and “Do go on,” said Udine.

“So instead, I would begin with all the operational expenses of the last week, and onwards, that this emergency has entailed.”

Shiv was drawn into a seems fair kind of nod; a frugal wifely hand on his arm restrained further premature expression, and he settled back.

“We also, it would seem, require a new ImpSec building.”

Shiv’s teeth set slightly; Simon, by his widening eyes, looked as if he were stifling a cry of vicarious joy. Guy Allegre, who had shifted to the edge of his seat at the new, wider turn in the conversation, sat back in his own Do go on mode.

“The old building is…extremely hard to value, in its current location. Some would consider it a priceless historical relic.”

“Betan dollar?” came a low, imploring mutter from the other end of the row.

Gregor managed to ignore the interjection. “In any case, it certainly seems wise to escrow some amount of funding for its eventual cleanup or disposal.”

“Mm,” said Shiv.

“Much more critical is the need to escrow an appropriate amount for any cleanup of Mycoborer contamination that may yet be found. That will not be underfunded.”

Both I.S.I. people perked up.

This won a pained grunt from Shiv. But—apparently he’d learned something about Barrayar, in this visit—no argument. Because of all the choices of points to dig in his heels about, that would have been the most disastrous. Even more offensive than quibbling over the survivors’ pensions.

A very small smile curled Gregor’s lips. “It will not be all take and no give, from my, er, Imperial hands, however. To help speed your and your family’s return to the Whole, I propose to throw in, gratis, your own jumpship. Unarmed, but, I am assured, speedy.” Gregor gave a general wave of his index finger orbit-ward.

This surprised a choke from Byerly. “Vormercier’s yacht? You’d foist that—” he cut himself off.

“The décor, I am given to understand, is questionable; but the mechanics are sound. My inspecting engineers have guaranteed it. Vorrutyer here has traveled in it, and can so testify.”

“Yeah, it…goes.”

So long as it goes away, the quirk of Gregor’s eyebrows indicated. “I expect you can get some entertainment out of its resale, later.”

Shiv tapped his thick fingers together, looking amused for almost the first time this morning. “I’ll look forward to that.”

“The other gift I mean to give to take with you is—my personal liaison. An experienced ImpSec surveillance agent, and, as I understand it, very nearly a son-in-law. Since, I believe, you have some preferences for keeping important transactions in the family.” Gregor opened his hand to Byerly, sitting in the second row next to Rish. She twisted to look at him in surprise.

This obviously wasn’t the first time By had heard this proposal from Gregor—when the hell had they had time to meet?—but it was plain that he was still digesting it. “It’ll be all…new,” he said weakly.

Rish, recovering her composure, remarked, “I could probably help you out with that, By. Reciprocity, after all.” Shiv, turning around, eyed her in tolerant speculation.

Allegre put in, as a kind of backhanded encouragement, “Your Domestic Affairs handler has been afraid you were getting stale, Vorrutyer. He thought you needed a new challenge.”

No, I don’t! Byerly mouthed to his lap, shoulders hunching slightly. But he didn’t dare look around at Allegre while he did.

Allegre went on, “I’ll leave you and the Arquas to evolve your own plausible cover story, but at a glance, you seem spoiled for choice.” He managed a thin smile for Rish.

Shiv and Udine looked at each other. Udine glanced up. “May the two of us be excused to confer in private for a moment.”

“Of course,” said Gregor.

They retreated to the hallway; not exactly private, there were guards out there as well, but out of earshot of the room. They were gone a long time, during which there was a lot of shifting and stretching and a run on the coffee and remaining pastries, and on the adjoining lav. Allegre and Simon teamed up to have Colonel Otto rerun his colorful visual aid a few times, at various speeds. It was really hard to read Simon’s emotions, but he didn’t seem to get tired of the show.

At length, Shiv and Udine returned, to take up a united stance before Gregor.

“Gregor Vorbarra,” said Shiv, “I do believe you are a worthy grandson of your famous grandfather Ezar.” He stuck out his hand. “You have your deal.”

Meticulously, Gregor shook each of their hands in turn. “Baron. Baronne.” He couldn’t quite seem to bring himself to say thank you, under the circumstances. But he did manage, “Good luck in your future endeavors.”

Shiv, about to turn away, turned back. “Emperor Gregor. I do have one purely private favor to ask.”

A not-quite-nod invited him to go on.

“May I have the pleasure of informing the man known as Vigo Imola of the estimated valuation of the contents of the bunker—in person?”

A slight hesitation, as whatever lurid visions of eleventh-hour collusion crossed Gregor’s well-honed imagination. Happily, his imagination didn’t stop there. A faint smile turned his lips. “Fifteen percent, was it not? I believe I see your point.” He motioned to Byerly. “Vorrutyer may escort you.”

Armsman in front and secretary trailing, Gregor paused on his way out to deal with whatever next crisis might be crowding his queue. Because a three-planet empire delivered upset snakes by the basket-load to this man’s office, every damned morning. Yeah—for all the talk of men coveting the emperor’s throne, Ivan had never yet heard anyone speak of coveting his desk.

“Ivan.” Gregor’s mouth twisted. “Captain and Lady Vorpatril. I want to see you tomorrow. My secretary will call with your appointment.”