Greenlaw looked even dryer; Venn grunted disconsolately. Miles gathered Venn would be just as glad for the Imperial Auditor to take them away now , except for the politics of the larger situation. Miles didn't push the point, but stored it up for near-future reference. He entertained a brief, wistful fantasy of trading Brun for his men, and leaving Brun here, to the net benefit of the Emperor's Service, but did not air it aloud.

His interview with the two service security men who'd initially been sent to pick up Corbeau was, in its way, even more wince-worthy. They were sufficiently intimidated by his Auditor's rank to give full and honest, if muttered, accounts of the contretemps. But such infelicitous phraseology as I wasn't trying to break her arm, I was trying to bounce the mutie bitch off the wall , and All those clutching hands gave me the creeps—it was like having snakes wrapping around my boot , convinced Miles that here were two men he wouldn't care to have testify in public, at least not in public in Quaddiespace. However, he was able to establish the significant point that at the time of the clash they, too, had been under the impression that Lieutenant Solian had just been murdered by an unknown quaddie.

He emerged from this interrogation to say to Venn, “I think I'd better speak privately to Ensign Corbeau. Can you find us a space?”

“Corbeau already has his own cell,” Venn informed him coolly. “As a result of his being threatened by his comrades.”

“Ah. Take me to him, then, if you please.”

* * *

The cell door slid aside to reveal a tall young man sitting silently on a bunk, elbows on knees, his face propped in his hands. The metallic contact circles of a jump pilot's neural implant gleamed at his temples and mid-forehead, and Miles mentally tripled the young officer's recent training costs to the Imperium. He looked up and frowned in confusion at Miles.

He was a typical enough Barrayaran: dark haired, brown eyed, with an olive complexion made pale by his months in space. His regular features reminded Miles a bit of his cousin Ivan at the same feckless age. An extensive bruise around one eye was fading, turning yellowish green. His uniform shirt was open at the throat, sleeves rolled up. Some paling, irregular pink scars zigzagged over his exposed skin, marking him as a victim of the Sergyaran worm plague of some years back; he had evidently grown up, or at least been resident, on Barrayar's new colony planet during that difficult period before the oral vermicides had been perfected.

Venn said, “Ensign Corbeau, this is the Barrayaran Imperial Auditor, Lord Vorkosigan. Your emperor sent him out as the official diplomatic envoy to represent your side in negotiations with the Union. He wishes to interview you.”

Corbeau's lips parted in alarm, and he scrambled to his feet and bobbed his head nervously at Miles. It made their height differential rather spring to the eye, and Corbeau's brow wrinkled in increased confusion.

Venn added, not so much kindly as punctiliously, “Due to the charges lodged against you, as well as your petition for asylum still pending for review, Sealer Greenlaw will not permit him to remove you from our custody at this time.”

Corbeau exhaled a little, but still stared at Miles with the expression of a man introduced to a poisonous snake.

Venn added, a sardonic edge in his voice, “He has undertaken not to order you to shoot yourself, either.”

“Thank you, Chief Venn,” said Miles. “I'll take it from here, if you don't mind.”

Venn took the hint, and his leave. Roic took up his silent guard stance by the cell door, which hissed closed.

Miles gestured at the bunk. “Sit down, Ensign.” He seated himself on the bunk across from the young man and cocked his head in brief study as Corbeau refolded himself. “Stop hyperventilating,” he added.

Corbeau gulped, and managed a wary, “My lord.”

Miles laced his fingers together. “Sergyaran, are you?”

Corbeau glanced down at his arms and made an abortive move to roll down his sleeves. “Not born there, my lord. My parents emigrated when I was about five years old.” He glanced at the silent Roic in his brown-and-silver uniform, and added, “Are you—” then swallowed whatever he'd been about to say.

Miles could fill in the blank. “I'm Viceroy and Vicereine Vorkosigan's son, yes. One of them.”

Corbeau managed an unvoiced Oh . His look of suppressed terror did not diminish.

“I have just interviewed the two fleet patrollers sent to retrieve you from your station leave. In a moment, I'd like to hear your version of that event. But first—did you know Lieutenant Solian, the Komarran fleet security officer aboard the Idris ?”

The pilot's thoughts were so clearly focused on his own affairs that it took him a moment to parse this. “I met him once or twice at some of our prior stops, my lord. I can't say as I knew him. I never went aboard the Idris .”

“Do you have any thoughts or theories about his disappearance?”

“Not . . . not really.”

“Captain Brun thinks he might have deserted.”

Corbeau grimaced. “Brun would.”

“Why Brun especially?”

Corbeau's lips moved, halted; he looked still more miserable. “It would not be appropriate for me to criticize my superiors, my lord, or to comment on their personal opinions.”

“Brun is prejudiced against Komarrans.”

“I didn't say that!”

“That was my observation, Ensign.”

“Oh.”

“Well, let's leave that for the moment. Back to your troubles. Why didn't you answer your wrist com recall order?”

Corbeau touched his bare left wrist; the Barrayarans' com links had all been confiscated by their quaddie captors. “I'd taken it off and left it in another room. I must have slept through the beep. The first I knew of the recall order was when those two, two . . .” He struggled for a moment, then continued bitterly, “thugs came pounding at Garnet Five's door. They just pushed her aside—”

“Did they identify themselves properly, and relay your orders clearly?”

Corbeau paused, his glance at Miles sharpening. “I admit, my lord,” he said slowly, “Sergeant Touchev announcing, 'All right, mutie-lover, this show's over,' did not exactly convey 'Admiral Vorpatril has ordered all Barrayaran personnel back to their ships' to my mind. Not right away, anyway. I'd just woken up, you see.”

“Did they identify themselves?”

“Not—not verbally.”

“Show any ID?”

“Well . . . they were in uniform, with their patrol armbands.”

“Did you recognize them as fleet security, or did you think this was a private visit—a couple of comrades taking out their racial offense on their own time?”

“It . . . um . . . well—the two aren't exactly mutually exclusive, my lord. In my experience.”

The kid has that one straight, unfortunately. Miles took a breath. “Ah.”

“I was slow, still half asleep. When they shoved me around, Garnet Five thought they were attacking me. I wish she hadn't tried to . . . I didn't slug Touchev till he dumped her out of her float chair. At that point . . . everything sort of went down the disposer.” Corbeau glowered at his feet, encased in prison-issue friction slippers.

Miles sat back. Throw this boy a line. He's drowning. He said mildly, “You know, your career is not necessarily cooked yet. You aren't, technically, AWOL as long as you are involuntarily confined by the Graf Station authorities, any more than Brun's strike patrol here is. For a little while yet, you're in a legal limbo. Your jump pilot's training and surgery would make you a costly loss, from command's viewpoint. If you make the right moves, you could still get out of this pretty cleanly.”

Corbeau's face screwed up. “I don't . . .” He trailed off.

Miles made an encouraging noise.