funerary proceedings

[middlingalong]

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...?"

Comments

[pythbox]

The intruder howls like the souls of the damned and yanks against Ivan's grip with surprising strength.

[thisvorlunatic]

Miles prudently bounces away again, aiming his weightless flight to bring him and his battle-spoils to the dubious shelter of the pilot's chair. He's afraid for a moment that whatever he took from that vest pocket was the power pack to an artificial heart, or something similarly vital, to have provoked such a scream—but that theory is disproved by a moment's glance at the man's continuing violent struggles. Dead men are not habitually so lively.

[middlingalong]

Ivan is now experiencing more thoroughly modest success, which is to say failure, at keeping his captive held.

[pythbox]

He spends a bare instant in the hatchway, staring at Miles and the stolen rod with a strange expression on his hairless face, before turning and fleeing down the flex tube into the docking bay - perhaps because the pilot has finally extracted himself from his safety harness and the odds are now two against one in terms of practical combatants.

[middlingalong]

Ivan gives chase.

[pythbox]

The man gains solid footing in the station's artificial gravity just in time to kick Ivan back down the flex tube with a well-braced boot to the chest, then immediately bolts for one of the docking bay's many exits, disappearing out of sight before anyone can emerge from the flex tube to watch him go.

[middlingalong]

Ow.

[thisvorlunatic]

Ow indeed, since the first obstacle Ivan encounters in his flight is Miles coming the other way. Thankfully the impact is soft enough and distributed enough not to break any bones, but Miles still curses silently as the distorted echoes of retreating footsteps become quieter and more distant and he's still trying to sort out their tangled trajectories and get them both into the station and on their feet.

The pilot glances past them to verify the lack of any obvious dangers in the dimly lit docking bay - easy to do, since in point of fact it contains nothing but Miles, Ivan, and an assortment of doors and hallway openings - and then hurries back along the tube to answer his beeping com alarm.

[middlingalong]

Ivan hauls himself to his feet.

"Y'know," he remarks, "if that was the customs inspector, we're in trouble."

[thisvorlunatic]

Right now, Miles will gladly take the Ivan-est of Ivan-utterances over the laboured gasping of a moment ago.

"I thought he was about to draw on us," he says. "It looked like it."

[middlingalong]

"You didn't see a weapon before you yelled."

[thisvorlunatic]

"It wasn't the weapon. It was his eyes," he struggles to explain. "He looked like someone about to try something that scared him to death. And he did draw."

[middlingalong]

"After we jumped him," observes Ivan. "Who knows what he was about to do?"

[thisvorlunatic]

Miles turns to get a good look at the utterly deserted freight bay. "There's something very wrong here," he says as he takes it all in. "Either he wasn't in the right place - or we weren't. This musty dump can't be our docking port, can it? I mean, where's the Barrayaran ambassador? The honour guard?"

[middlingalong]

"The red carpet, the dancing girls?" elaborates Ivan, sighing. "You know, if he'd been trying to assassinate you, or hijack the pod, he should have come charging in with that nerve disruptor already in his hand."

[thisvorlunatic]

And of the two of them, Miles is certainly the more assassinable.

"That was no customs inspector. Look at the monitors," he says, pointing at the two vid pickups in the bay - both hanging loose, torn from their respective wall-mounts, clearly nonfunctional. "He disabled them before he tried to board. I don't understand. Station security should be swarming in here right now..." He searches for an explanation that accounts for the man's visible fear of them, his erratic actions. No stunning insights present themselves. "D'you think he wanted the pod, and not us?"

[middlingalong]

"You, boy," says Ivan. "No one would be after me."

[thisvorlunatic]

"He seemed more scared of us than we were of him," says Miles, regulating his breathing carefully so as not to display how scared he in fact was.

[middlingalong]

"Speak for yourself. He sure scared me."

[thisvorlunatic]

"Are you all right?" it occurs to him to ask. "I mean, no broken ribs or anything?"

[middlingalong]

"Oh, yeah, I'll survive... you?"

[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."