He sat behind Tonkin’s eyes and walked with him through the hurried maze of Bharaputra’s buildings, tunnels, and corridors, all the way to the last firefight at the end. Thorne had quoted Norwood correctly; it was right there on the vid. Though he’d been wrong on the time; Norwood was gone eleven minutes by the helmet’s unsubjective clock. Norwood’s flushed face reappeared, panting, the urgent laugh sounded—and, moments later, the grenade-strike, the explosion—almost ducking, Mark hastily shut off the vid, and glanced down at himself as if half-expecting to be branded with another mortal splattering of blood and brains.
If there’s any clue, it has to be earlier. He started the program again from the parting in the foyer. The third time through, he slowed it down and took it step by step, examining each. The patient, finicky, self-forgetful absorption was almost pleasurable. Tiny details—you could lose yourself in tiny details, an anesthetic for brain-pain.
“Got you,” he whispered. It had flashed past so fast as to be subliminal, if you were running the vid in real-time. The briefest glimpse of a sign on the wall, an arrow on a cross-corridor labeled Shipping and Receiving.
He looked up to find Bothari-Jesek watching him. How long had she been sitting there? She slumped relaxed, long legs crossed at booted ankles, long fingers tented together. “What have you got?” she asked quietly.
He called up the holomap of the ghostly buildings with Norwood and Tonkin’s line of march glowing inside. “Not here,” he pointed, “but there.” He marked a complex well off-sides from the route the Dendarii had traveled with the cryo-chamber. “That’s where Norwood went. Through that tunnel. I’m sure of it! I’ve seen that facility—been all over that building. Hell, I used to play hide and seek in it with my friends, till the babysitters made us stop. I can see it in my head as surely as if I had Norwood’s helmet vid playing right here on the table. He took that cryo-chamber down to Shipping and Receiving, and he shipped it!”
Bothari-Jesek sat up. “Is that possible? He had so little time!”
“Not just possible. Easy! The packing equipment is fully automated. All he had to do was put the cryo-chamber in the casing machine and hit the keypad. The robots would even have delivered it to the loading dock. It’s a busy place—receives supplies for the whole complex, ships everything from data disks to frozen body parts for transplants to genetically engineered fetuses to emergency equipment for search and rescue teams. Such as reconditioned cryo-chambers. All sorts of stuff! It operates around the clock, and it would have had to be evacuated in a hurry when our raid hit. While the packing equipment was running, Norwood could have been generating the shipping label on the computer. Slapped ’em together, gave it to the transport robot—and then, if he was as smart as I think, erased the file record. Then he ran like hell back to Tonkin.”
“So the cryo-chamber is sitting packed on a loading dock downside! Wait’ll I tell Quinn! I suppose we’d better tell the Bharaputrans where to look—”
“I …” he held up a restraining hand. “I think …”
She looked at him, and sank back into the station chair, eyes narrowing. “Think what?”
“It’s been almost a full day since we lifted. It’s been a half-day and more since we told the Bharaputrans to look for the cryo-chamber. If that cryo-chamber was still sitting on a loading dock, I think the Bharaputrans would have found it by now. The automated shipping system is efficient. I think the cryo-chamber already went out, maybe within the first hour. I think the Bharaputrans and Fell are telling the truth. They must be going insane right now. Not only is there no cryo-chamber down there, they haven’t got a clue in hell where it went!”
Bothari-Jesek sat stiff. “Do we?” she asked. “My God. If you’re right—it could be on its way anywhere. Freighted out from any of two dozen orbital transfer stations—it could have been jumped by now! Simon Illyan is going to have a stroke when we report this.”
“No. Not anywhere,” Mark corrected intently. “It could only have been addressed to somewhere that Medic Norwood knew. Someplace he could remember, even when he was surrounded and cut off and under fire.”
She licked her lips, considering this. “Right,” she said at last. “Almost anywhere. But at least we can start guessing by studying Norwood’s personnel files.” She sat back, and looked up at him with grave eyes. “You know, you do all right, alone in a quiet room. You’re not stupid. I didn’t see how you could be. You’re just not the field-officer type.”
“I’m not any kind of officer-type. I hate the military.”
“Miles loves field work. He’s addicted to adrenalin rushes.”
“I hate them. I hate being afraid. I can’t think when I’m scared. I freeze when people shout at me.”
“Yet you can think… . How much of the time are you scared?”
“Most of it,” he admitted grimly.
“Then why do you …” she hesitated, as if choosing her words very cautiously, “why do you keep trying to be Miles?”
“I’m not, you’re making me play him!”
“I didn’t mean now. I mean generally.”
“I don’t know what the hell you mean.”
Chapter Ten
Twenty hours later, the two Dendarii ships undocked from Fell Station and maneuvered to boost toward Jumppoint Five. They were not alone. An escort of half a dozen House Fell security vessels paced and policed them. The Fell vessels were dedicated local space warships, lacking Necklin rods and wormhole jump capacity; the power thus saved was shunted into a formidible array of weapons and shielding. Muscle-ships.
The convoy was trailed at a discreet distance by a Bharaputran cruiser, more yacht than warship, prepared to accept the final transfer of Baron Bharaputra, as arranged, in space near Fell’s Jumppoint Five station. Unfortunately, Miles’s cryo-chamber was not aboard it.
Quinn had come close to a breakdown, before accepting the inevitable. Bothari-Jesek had literally backed her against the wall, at their last private conference in the briefing room.
“I won’t leave Miles!” Quinn howled. “I’ll space that Bharaputran bastard first!”
“Look,” Bothari-Jesek hissed, Quinn’s jacket bunched in her fist. If she’d been an animal, Mark thought, her ears would have been flat to her head. He huddled in a station chair and tried to make himself small. Smaller. “I don’t like this any better than you do, but the situation has gone way beyond our capacity. Miles is clearly out of Bharaputran hands, heading God knows where. We need reinforcements: not warships, but trained intelligence agents. A pile of ’em. We need Illyan, and ImpSec, we need them bad, and we need them as fast as possible. It’s time to cut and run. The faster we get out of here, the faster we can return.”
“I will be back,” Quinn swore.
“That’ll be between you and Simon Illyan. I promise you, he’ll be just as interested as we are in retrieving that cryo-chamber.”
“Illyan’s just a Barrayaran,” Quinn sputtered for a word, “bureaucrat. He can’t care the way we do.”
“Don’t bet on that,” whispered Bothari-Jesek.
In the end, Bothari-Jesek, Quinn’s downward duty to the rest of the Dendarii, and the logic of the situation had prevailed. And so Mark found himself dressing in officer’s greys for what he earnestly prayed would be his last public appearance ever as Admiral Miles Naismith, observing the transfer of their hostage onto a House Fell shuttle. Whatever happened to Vasa Luigi after that would be up to Baron Fell. Mark could only hope it would be something unpleasant.