Cryoburn-ARC

by Lois M. Bujold

  At length, the doorseal popped, the vaultlike door swung open, and the consul admitted them. His eyes seemed electric blue, and he was breathing fast, as though he had been running. "You're too late," he announced.

  M'lord's brows rose. "Not a first. What for this time?"

  A muscle jumped by Vorlynkin's scowling mouth. "I just sent a full report of what I witnessed by tight-beam to General Allegre at ImpSec HQ, Barrayar. I never thought I'd live to see a Vorkosigan sell himself for money. My career may be slagged, but so will yours, my Lord Auditor."

  "Ah, excellent. That's done." M'lord kicked the door shut; it sealed with a sigh that seemed insufficiently dramatic for Vorlynkin's mood.

  "What?" Vorlynkin's fists clenched.

  "Not that every man doesn't have his price," m'lord went on amiably. "As I'm sure Wing-san would agree. I was more afraid that if he didn't come up to scratch today, I'd have that whole parade at the conference to do over again."

  If the consul didn't stop inhaling, he was going to pop a lung, Roic thought. He put in peaceably, "Stop baiting the poor fellow, m'lord." Now that you have what you want, anyway. Roic didn't want to have to wrestle the man to the floor if he went for m'lord's throat, which he seemed on the verge of doing. Was that old phrase about being mad enough to spit nails supposed to apply to, like, roofing nails, or fingernails? Around m'lord, Roic had never been sure.

  M'lord added a trifle impatiently, "Men like Wing don't go around throwing their money at potential opponents at random, Vorlynkin. First they have to figure out that the target is bribable. I did my best to help him decide. Have a seat, Consul, Doctor. It's time we talked."

  Vorlynkin's mouth, which had opened to emit some hot remark, sagged. "Lord Vorkosigan—is this a sting?"

  "It is now." M'lord pulled out a station chair and plunked into it. "We weren't sure at first, which is why they sent me—I could be bait and trap at the same time, saving the Imperium on jumpship fares if nothing else."

  Vorlynkin sank more slowly into a chair opposite; Roic breathed easier. The consul glanced in dismay at the secured comconsole. "M'lord—I sent the report."

  "Don't apologize. Your next official visitor might really be on the take, after all. I don't intend to apologize to you, either, if it makes you feel any better. I've seen our diplomatic personnel bought out before. I had to make sure."

  "You were . . . ​testing me?" That disturbing heat in Vorlynkin's eyes, which had started to fade, flared once more.

  "Why do you suppose I hauled you along today and let you see all this?"

  Vorlynkin's hands clenched on his knees, but slowly eased again. "I see. Very efficient."

  "Do try to keep up." M'lord added more kindly, "It won't be easy; this case has baffled a few ImpSec analysts." He turned to Raven. "So, what did you learn of interest during the time you had with Storrs?"

  Raven's mouth twisted in doubt. "I'm not sure I learned anything new. Their cryofreezing program seems perfectly legitimate—nothing wrong with their procedures from a technical standpoint. I asked to see a revival, but Storrs said there weren't any scheduled today, which by then didn't surprise me. He did show me the revival facilities. They looked quite adequate. He angled to find out if I would be interested in employment with WhiteChrys, and tried to find out my current pay rate. I said my main interests lay with cryorevival, as it's more medically challenging. He said he'd pass that along, although he didn't say who to. We came back and joined your show in progress, where you'd finished the dogs and were on to the ponies. Eh." Raven shrugged.

  Vorlynkin blinked. "Lord Vorkosigan, is Dr. Durona your agent?"

  "Civilian contract consultant," m'lord clarified, "being paid out of my case budget. Are you still collecting your Durona Group salary simultaneously, Raven?"

  Raven smirked. "That's personal information."

  "I'll take that as a yes. So don't hesitate to use Dr. Durona on double shifts, if needed."

  Raven grinned and rose to prod the automatic beverage maker, strategically positioned near the secured comconsole and its satellite console. It coughed up something coffee-ish, judging by the smell. Raven picked up the cup and gestured politely toward his chair; Roic waved him back to it and took up a position propping the wall with his arms crossed, in a pose copied from a certain former ImpSec chief.

  "To bring you up to speed, Vorlynkin," m'lord went on. "WhiteChrys was vetted and cleared by ImpSec when its advance teams first scouted Komarr eighteen months ago, but ImpSec was looking for connections with military espionage and the like. Their business plan passed the local Komarran commissions, and they were in. No one would have given them a second look for years, if it hadn't been for some good old-fashioned nepotism.

  "Within the last few months, as the flagship facility we saw in Wing's vid was nearing completion, WhiteChrys began collecting contracts on future customers. Not unnaturally, they targeted Solstice upper-class elderly women's clubs. At the same time, another sales team made some limited strategic stock offerings to certain wealthy and influential Komarrans, to give the local powers-that-be a stake in the future success of their operations. I expect the two sales teams didn't compare hit lists, nor realize that some wealthy old ladies are retired Komarran traders who can read a balance sheet to a gnat's eyebrow.

  "And one of those little old ladies looked at the two proposals before her and said, ‘This smells, but I don't see how,' so she took it to her beloved great-niece, who said, ‘You're right, Auntie, this smells, but I don't see how,' who took the problem in turn to her devoted husband, better known as Emperor Gregor Vorbarra. Who handed it to his loyal Imperial Auditor, saying, and I quote, ‘Here, Miles, you're better at diving into the privy and coming up with the gold ring than anyone I know. Have a go.' And I said, ‘Thank you, Sire,' and took ship for Kibou-daini."

  Vorlynkin blinked again. Deeply. Roic reflected that the Imperium's shrewd Komarran Empress served Gregor in more ways than just the joint production of their several scarily smart children.

  M'lord went on blithely, "The other thing wealthy old Komarrans tend to have is an excess of planetary voting shares—er, Raven, do I need to explain these to you?"

  "Yes, please," said Raven, settling back and looking fascinated.

  "The system, as usual, is a relict of Komarr's colonization history. The planet is presently unlivable—though undergoing long-term terraforming—all settlement is in sealed arcologies, the Domes."

  "I knew that much . . ."

  "Right. So to encourage the development of the domes, the early Komarran colonists set up a reward system. In addition to an inalienable one-person-one-vote that every Komarran is born and dies with, the colony awarded additional votes to those taking on the work and risk of creating more living space. These were inheritable, tradable, salable, and in general accumulate-able. The basis of the Komarran oligarchy as it now stands is clan possession of blocks of these planetary voting shares. The place is putatively a democracy, but some are measurably more equal than others. You follow?"

  Raven nodded.

  "So," said Vorlynkin, who had, after all, had two years to watch Kibou-daini in operation, "you think WhiteChrys plans to accumulate those votes wholesale?"

  "I do now. Mind you, Komarr has a long history of attempted chicanery with its voting system. Over time it's accumulated a huge number of rules to thwart same. Among other things, voting shares can't be held outright by corporations—they have to be in the hands of individuals. There are tested systems for proxies, and so on. WhiteChrys's contracts passed muster with the Komarran regulators, and, if anybody had still been looking by that point, we'd have accepted that.

  "My two working hypotheses are either that WhiteChrys has bribed some regulators—a possibility I now find quite compelling—or that they have figured out some way to game the rules system to hide their true intention till too late. Or both."

  Roic couldn't help thinking that m'lord oughtn't to look quite so admiring, detailing this in front of the still-gently
-steaming Vorlynkin. But, well, m'lord.

  "The one thing that gave me pause was that there was no way this could be a get-rich-quick scheme, even if the Komarran system of voting shares gives it a turbo-boost compared to Kibou. The profit margin on what is arguably a service industry is razor-thin, yet WhiteChrys has been spending money like a drunken Vor lord. Why go to all this trouble for a payoff you'll never live to see? Until the last thing Wing said to me this afternoon, which was that he planned to have himself frozen on Komarr."

  M'lord looked around proudly, as if expecting the room to burst into applause, and was plainly disappointed to receive three blank looks instead.

  He inhaled, visibly backing up. "Unpack, Miles, right. What I now suspect is going on is a two-tiered scam. I think there is an inner cadre of White Chrys executives who plan to ride out the years in cryo-stasis, and all be revived in time to collect the goodies. In fact, if they're as smart as I think, they likely plan to take turns, so there's always someone on the team awake to look after their interests. While they quietly, automatically, bloodlessly buy Komarr. Or maybe not so bloodlessly, depending on whether you consider early freezing to be murder or suicide, or not. The slowest, subtlest, and, I have to say, creepiest planetary conquest scheme ever devised!"

  Even Vorlynkin jumped at that, his lips parting in consternation. "Conquest!"

  "I hardly know what else to call it. But I still have a hell of a lot of dots to connect before I can sign off on this investigation. As soon as we get your consulate deep data crawlers up and running, that's the first thing I want to look for—a list of WhiteChrys personnel who have lately shifted all their investments to WhiteChrys Solstice, and are planning to follow them in person. Because, given the numbers, I also think it possible that this is could be a secret group inside WhiteChrys who are gutting their own company to feather their nests."

  "Whew!" said Raven, with proper admiration. M'lord bestowed a pleased smile upon him.

  Vorlynkin ran his hands through his hair. "How do you plan to nail the bastards? Bribing an Imperial Auditor may be as illegal as all hell on Barrayar, but we're on Kibou-daini. Even if you could prove it—and I'm afraid my testimony would be suspect, here—I doubt Wing would get more than a slap on the wrist."

  "Actually, I would prefer not to give the slightest hint to anyone on Kibou that we've tumbled to them. The ideal revenge would be to let WhiteChrys get their hand so far into the cookie jar on Komarr that they can't get it out, then cut it off at the wrist by changing the contract rules just enough on 'em to make them drop the votes. Leaving them to be exactly what they feigned to be, a marginally profitable service company. That would hurt enough to be a warning to others. Brute nationalization is a last resort—it would piss off the rest of the Komarran business community regardless of the rights of the case. It'll take some study—I'm afraid we're going to be up to our ears in lawyers before this is done—but with luck my part of the task will be over by then." M'lord glanced up at Vorlynkin. "So what do you think of your Lieutenant Johannes? He's young, which makes him both poorer and potentially more gullible. Is he reliable enough for this?"

  "I . . ." Vorlynkin was given pause. "I've never had cause to doubt him."

  "And your local clerk, Yuuichi what's-his-name, Matson?"

  "I've never had cause to doubt him, either. But we've never had a situation like this before."

  "That you knew," sighed m'lord. "Yet routine travel visas for WhiteChrys personnel have been handled through the consulate all this time."

  "Yes, but all we ask is business or tourism? Plus a quick background check for criminal records."

  M'lord's eyes crinkled in speculation. "I wonder if we should add a box to tick off—Reason for travel: creepy planetary conquest . . . ​no, I suppose not."

  Vorlynkin said slowly, "What if I hadn't tried to turn you in just now?"

  "Then you wouldn't be part of this debriefing, and I'd be on the lookout for ways to nail you to the wall, too. In passing." M'lord stretched and rolled his shoulders. Vorlynkin looked, Roic felt, properly thoughtful at last.

  "Now, the other thing," m'lord began, but was interrupted when the sealed door chimed.

  Lieutenant Johannes's voice issued from the intercom. "Consul? Lord Vorkosigan?"

  "Yes?" responded m'lord.

  "Um . . . Your half-sized courier's just turned up at the back door. And he's not alone."

  M'lord's brows rose; Vorlynkin's drew down. Raven cocked his head in curiosity.

  "Don't let him get away, Johannes," m'lord called back. "We'll be right there."

  Motioning Roic to unseal the door, m'lord grabbed his cane and levered to his feet.

  Chapter Nine

  The kitchen of the consulate seemed homey, if spacious by Jin's standards. Maybe it was the cool dusk falling in the back garden that made it so warm and bright. Maybe it was all the dishes piled in the sink that made it look so, well, kitchen-y, as if a fellow could wander in and out to snack at will without being yelled at, even. But the noise of all the footsteps clumping up from the basement made Jin shift uneasily, and when Mina's little hand stole into his and clutched hard, he didn't shake her off.

  Jin's timid knock had been answered by Lieutenant Johannes, who'd taken one look, cried You! and hustled them both inside, though he'd looked askance at Mina; added Wait right there, don't move; and thumped downstairs before Jin could get three words into his much-rehearsed explanation of how the police had taken Miles-san's money. So Jin was expecting the fierce-eyed Consul Vorlynkin, but behind him loomed the biggest Barrayaran Jin had seen yet, half a head taller than the tall consul. He wore clothes that reminded Jin of a military uniform, had short wavy brown hair and a firm square-jawed face, and looked older than Johannes but younger than the consul. Mina stared up at him with her mouth hanging open.

  The big Barrayaran so filled up what had, till a moment before, seemed a wide doorway that it took a moment for Jin to notice the slim fellow with his hair in a neat dark braid who followed him, and another moment to spot Miles-san in their wake.

  The little man shouldered past them all, coming face to face with Jin. He looked so different all cleaned up, more grownup, more . . . ​daunting, that it was a couple of heartbeats before Jin, recovering from his shock, inhaled and cried, "My creatures! You promised you'd look after them!"

  Miles-san held up a hand. "They're all right, Jin! When you didn't come back by midnight, I copied out your instructions and gave them to Ako. When I implied I was going to look for you, she was very willing to help out."

  "But how did you get here?"

  "Walked. Took me all that night."

  From behind Jin, Mina asked interestedly, "Did you get lost, too?"

  "We weren't lost, exactly," Jin denied, harassed. "Just turned around a little."

  "And who are you, young lady?" Miles-san addressed Mina. "I don't believe we've been introduced."

  "Sister," muttered Jin. "It wasn't my idea to bring her."

  "I have a name," Mina pointed out. "It's Mina. Want to see my blisters?"

  Miles-san didn't even blink. "Sure! Are they good ones? Have they popped yet?"

  "Oh, yes—they made my socks all bloody, too."

  "Well, Miss Mina, why don't you sit down here—" Miles-san pulled out a kitchen chair with a flourish, and half-bowed Mina into it, as if she'd been a grownup lady, "—and show me." He added over his shoulder, "Johannes. Find something for these children to eat. Cookies. Milk. Gingerbread, whatever."

  "Are you Jin's galactic?" Mina asked, kicking off her sport shoes and picking at her splotched socks. "He told me all about you."

  "Did he?" Miles-san knelt and helped her peel off her socks; she said ow, ow, as they parted stickily from her scabs. "My word, those are good blisters, aren't they?" He glanced up and gave Vorlynkin-san a head-jerk that sent the consul to rummage in the other end of the kitchen.

  "Aunt Lorna buys all our shoes big to grow into," Mina explained to Miles-san. "That's why they slip ar
ound like that."

  Lieutenant Johannes, peering doubtfully into the depths of the refrigerator, murmured, "Beer . . . ​?"

  "Do you like beer, Mina?" Miles-san asked. She shook her head, making her straight black hair swing around her chin. "Thought not, somehow. You'll have to do better, Johannes. Aren't all you attaché fellows supposed to be ImpSec trained? Improvise!"

  Johannes muttered something through his teeth that Jin couldn't quite make out. He then conducted a brief survey which determined that vat-octopus pizza, no onions, was universally acceptable, and trod out to order some. Vorlynkin came back with what turned out to be a first-aid kit, which he handed off to the slim man with the braid, who didn't look Barrayaran at all, but didn't talk like someone from Kibou, either.

  Mina leaned toward Miles-san and whispered anxiously, "That big guy isn't a policeman, is he?"

  "Used to be," Miles-san whispered back gravely, "but now he works for me. Alas, Armsman Roic had to give up all his policeman's principles when he entered my service."

  The big man cast Mina a pious nod.

  Mina settled back, looking relieved, and let the slim man, who Miles-san introduced as Raven and said was a doctor from Escobar, attend to her feet. Vorlynkin watched closely, frowning, till he seemed to be satisfied with the skills displayed, then straightened up and narrowed his eyes at Jin. The big fellow, Armsman Roic, filled two glasses with water and set them on the table; Mina seized hers and drank thirstily, and Jin followed suit more warily.

  When he'd washed down the dry lump in his throat, which actually had little to do with thirst, Jin embarked once more on his interrupted explanation of what had happened to the consulate's money. Vorlynkin winced when Jin came to the part about the drug dealers and/or smugglers, but at Miles-san's restraining hand-gesture, the consul let Jin stumble all the way to the end before saying, "We know. We traced the packet to the police evidence rooms, and picked up your arrest report, too."

  So they did believe him. That was something, anyway.

  "Yes," said Miles-san, "and I'm sure the consul thanks you for keeping mum and preserving his reputation. Don't you, Vorlynkin?"