"Burn the dead!" Skinny finished, in much the tone that one might say Amen at the end of a rote prayer.
Burn, bury, freeze, Roic didn't see much to choose, except for the loss of some recycled organics. "But what's that got t'do with us?" said Roic plaintively. "We don't vote here. We're leaving next week. Are you after ransom?"
Skinny made a gesture of proud denial. "No! But we're determined that the Nexus will know of the injustice and suffering and theft on Kibou! No one-not you galactics, not the complacent old salary-folk, fat sheep dreaming only of their own meat lockers, not our own oppressed generation planet-wide-will remain in ignorance after this, no matter how they shut their eyes and ears!"
"Ah," said Roic. "Publicity stunt, huh?" Roic would have preferred ransom, actually. M'lord could have arranged it in a heartbeat, as soon as he was allowed to contact the Barrayaran consul here, and doubtless some sneaky way of recovering the money afterward, too. And yet, Roic had never heard of a political fringe group that wasn't strapped for cash. "It could be ransom," he essayed cautiously. "Or even reward, depending…"
Skinny looked scornful, but maybe give the idea time to work? Roic had more pressing concerns. "Lord Vorkosigan-t' fellow I work for, you can't mistake him, top of his head would be about level with your shoulder, carries a cane, talks a blue streak-is he here?"
Was that blank look feigned? Roic wasn't sure. He went on more urgently, "Because if he is, you've got to put us in a room together. I'm his private medtech, and he needs me. He gets these terrible seizures. He's a very important Vor lord, back on Barrayar. They'd pay a lot to get him back unharmed. But if he dies on you, well, you've no idea how ugly it could get." Roic wasn't sure how far to push this theme. M'lord had presumably been keeping a low profile here for a reason, and Roic didn't want to run the ransom price up inadvertently.
Lord Vorkosigan's post-cryorevival seizures actually consisted of him sinking down, shivering with his eyes rolled back for a couple of minutes in an unattractive manner, and then waking up very, very cranky. The fits were unlikely to be fatal, at least since Lady Vorkosigan had extracted his promise never, ever to attempt to drive himself in any powered vehicle-ground car, aircar, lightflyer, shuttle, or mode unnamed. Horses and bicycles had been a compromise, and though m'lord hated the helmets, he did comply.
Skinny didn't need to know this, however, so Roic embroidered the medical facts to the limit of his invention till Skinny, doubt growing in his eyes, weakened and said, "All right! I'll ask." He added-as no professional would have-"I didn't see anyone who looked like that guy here, though."
Skinny withdrew, leaving Roic thinking, Uh-huh. Minion, not master. Skinny seemed a type Roic had met often in his early days as a street guard in the Vorkosigan District capital of Hassadar. While not reliable enough to be put in charge of anything more complicated than a dishwasher, they were very easy to convince that all their troubles were someone else's fault. Roic knew this because they used to tell him so, at great and often incoherent length, while he was hauling them somewhere safe to sleep off their current binge of drink or drugs or arguments. That didn't mean they couldn't be truly dangerous, especially when they found themselves in over their heads, and it didn't take a very deep pool of troubles to manage that, either.
His own pool seemed an abyss, right now. Did the Legacy Liberators' plans for their captives include killing them one by one till their demands were met? Our fringe loonies on Barrayar sure would, Roic thought semi-proudly. Yet the affair had been oddly bloodless, so far-stunners and sleepy-drugs, not needlers and nerve gas. But maybe, maybe-dare he hope?-m'lord wasn't in their queue.
Because if m'lord died on Roic's watch, there would be nothing for it but to file the testimony by secured comlink and slit his own throat right here. Death would be better than making that report to certain persons in person. He pictured the faces of Count and Countess Vorkosigan, of Lady Ekaterin, hearing the news. Of Commander Pym, of Aurie. He imagined Sasha and little Helen, five years old-he'd have to kneel to look them in the eye-Where's Papa, Roic?
He lacked a suitable blade. He'd heard of prisoners choking themselves by swallowing their own tongues-he curled his experimentally-but he doubted it would work for him. There was the wall. Strong enough to hold that damned bolt, certainly. Could he run against that wall hard enough to break his own sturdy neck?
It seemed premature, but it was something to keep in mind. M'lord, now, he was very big on getting a good meal on board before making life-or-death decisions, and so was m'lady, come to think. Roic sighed, crawled over, and collected his Reddi-Meal.
?
Miles woke in a blink to broad daylight, a canvas roof, and a curious feline face staring into his from a cat's breath away. Glad to discover the weight on his chest was not some alarming new medical condition, he lifted the three-legged beast off and gingerly sat up. Post-drug headache, check. Fatigue, check. No screaming angels, double-check and an exclamation point or two. His vision seemed clear of all unrealities, and his surroundings, though odd, were not out of any nightmare he owned.
He pushed his blanket aside and looked around the rooftop refuge. All of the castlelike details had faded, to be replaced by a utilitarian flat quadrangle with a couple of exchanger towers supporting the canvas room. Or barn. Or zoo. In addition to the bird-of-prey on its perch, elegant and haughty and clearly the Vor lord of all it surveyed, some battered metal shelving displayed the cages harboring the black-and-white rat collection, along with several glass-walled terrariums. Though most of their occupants were out of sight behind artfully-arranged vegetation, he was fairly sure he saw a turtle. Along the wall opposite his bedroll, three boxes lined with shredded flimsies made nests for the chicken population; Twig, the brown hen, still dozed in hers. Miles eyed the clothesline still tied around his ankle. Have I been collected? He'd known worse fates.
And here was his zookeeper. Jin, sitting at the little round table, turned around and smiled at him. "Oh good, you're awake!"
Freed of an upwhacked brain chemistry's re-imaging, Jin proved a skinny kid just shy of puberty, with a shock of straight black hair in need of a cut and bright brown eyes, his features typical of the multi-racial blends of the local founder populations. He was dressed in a shirt too large for him, the sleeves rolled up and the shirttail trailing down over a pair of baggy shorts. Worn sport shoes without socks slopped on his feet. "Would you like breakfast?" Jin asked. "I have fresh eggs this morning-three of 'em!"
A proud young farmer; Miles could see that eggs loomed in his near future. "In a bit. I'd like to wash up first."
"Wash?" said Jin, as if this were a novel notion.
"Do you have any soap?" Miles went on. "I don't expect you have any depilatory."