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

[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."

[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."

[middlingalong]

"I thought we must be in the wrong place."

[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.

[middlingalong]

"He was disguised, anyway," says Ivan.

[thisvorlunatic]

"How do you know?"

[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."

[middlingalong]

"...Miles. What do you think you're doing?"

[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."

[middlingalong]

Ivan - sits, waits, gradually calms down.

[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.

[middlingalong]

"Maybe," suggests Ivan, "it's a dildo."

[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?

[middlingalong]

"You... are going to give it back, aren't you?"

[thisvorlunatic]

"Of course," he says. "If they ask for it."

[middlingalong]

"Aaaand if they don't?"

[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?"