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]

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."

[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."