Miles considered his own brief impression. Bright-haired, light-skinned, a trifle bulky, of indeterminate age, probably male—this could cover some several hundred quaddies on Graf Station. Laboring under intense emotion, but by that time, Miles had been too. Seen once, at that distance, under such circumstances, Miles didn't think even he could reliably pick the fellow out of a group of similar physical types. Unfortunately, none of the transients had happened just then to be doing a vid scan of the lobby d?cor or each other to show the folks back home. The waitress and her patron weren't even quite sure when the fellow had arrived, though they thought he'd been in position for a few minutes, upper hands resting casually upon the balcony railing, as if waiting for some last straggler from the passengers' meeting to mount the stairs. And so he was.

The still-shaken Dubauer fended off the medtechs, insisting it could treat the clotted rivet-graze itself and, reiterating a lack of anything to add to the testimonies, begged to be let go back to its room to lie down.

Bel said to its fellow Betan, “Sorry about all this. I may be tied up for a while. If I can't get away myself, I'll have Boss Watts send another supervisor to escort you aboard the Idris to take care of your critters.”

“Thank you, Portmaster. That would be very welcome. You'll call my room, yes? It really is most urgent.” Dubauer withdrew hastily.

Miles couldn't blame Dubauer for fleeing, for the quaddie news services were arriving, in the persons of two eager reporters in floaters emblazoned with the logo of their journalistic work gang. An array of little vidcam floaters bobbed after them. The vidcams darted about, collecting scans. Sealer Greenlaw followed hurriedly in their wake, and wove her floater determinedly through the growing mob to Miles's side. She was flanked by two quaddie bodyguards in Union Militia garb, with serious weapons and armor. However useless against assassins, they at least had the salutary effect of making the babbling bystanders back off.

“Lord Auditor Vorkosigan, were you hurt?” she demanded at once.

Miles repeated to her the assurances he'd made to Venn. He kept one eye on the robot vidcams floating up to him and recording his words, and not just to be sure his good side was turned to them. But none appeared to be mini-weapons-platforms in disguise. He made sure to loudly mention Bel's heroics again, which had the useful effect of turning them in pursuit of the Betan portmaster, now on the other side of the lobby being grilled in more detail by Venn's security people.

Greenlaw said stiffly, “Lord Auditor Vorkosigan, may I convey my profound personal apologies for this untoward incident. I assure you, all of the Union's resources will be turned to tracking down what I am certain must be an unbalanced individual and danger to us all.”

Danger to us all indeed . “I don't know what's going on, here,” said Miles. He let his voice sharpen. “And clearly, neither do you . This is no diplomatic chess game any more. Someone seems to be trying to start a damned war in here. They nearly succeeded.”

She took a deep breath. “I am certain the person was acting alone.”

Miles frowned thoughtfully. The hotheads are always with us, true. He lowered his voice. “For what? Retaliation? Did any of the quaddies injured by Vorpatril's strike force suddenly die last night?” He'd thought they all were on the recovering list. It was hard to imagine a quaddie relative or lover or friend taking bloody revenge for anything short of a fatality, but . . .

“No,” said Greenlaw, her voice slowing as she considered this hypothesis. Regretfully, her voice firmed. “No. I would have been told.”

So, Greenlaw was wishing for a simple explanation, too. But honest enough not to fool herself, at least.

His wrist com gave its high priority beep; he slapped it. “Yes?”

“My Lord Vorkosigan?” It was Admiral Vorpatril's voice, strained.

Not Ekaterin or Roic after all. Miles's heart climbed back down out of his throat. He tried not to let his voice go irritable. “Yes, Admiral?”

“Oh, thank God. We received a report that you were attacked.”

“All over now. They missed. Station Security is here now.”

There was a brief pause. Vorpatril's voice returned, fraught with implication: “My Lord Auditor, my fleet is on full alert, ready at your command.”

Oh, crap . “Thank you, Admiral, but stand down , please,” Miles said hastily. “Really. It's under control. I'll get back to you in a few minutes. Do nothing without my direct, personal orders!”

“Very well, my lord,” said Vorpatril stiffly, still in a very suspicious tone. Miles cut the channel.

Greenlaw was staring at him. He explained to her, “I'm Gregor's Voice. To the Barrayarans, it's as if that quaddie had fired on the Emperor, almost. When I said someone had nearly started a war, it wasn't a figure of speech, Sealer Greenlaw. At home, this place would be crawling with ImpSec's best by now.”

She cocked her head, her frown sharpening. “And how would an attack on an ordinary Barrayaran subject be treated? More casually, I daresay?”

“Not more casually, but on a lower organizational level. It would be a matter for their Count's District guard.”

“So on Barrayar, what kind of justice you receive depends on who you are? Interesting. I do not regret to inform you, Lord Vorkosigan, that on Graf Station you will be treated like any other victim—no better, no worse. Oddly enough, this is no loss for you.”

“How salutary for me,” said Miles dryly. “And while you're proving how unimpressed you are with my Imperial authority, a dangerous killer remains at large. What will it be to lovely, egalitarian Graf Station if he goes for a less personal method of disposing of me next time, such as a large bomb? Trust me—even on Barrayar, we all die the same. Shall we continue this discussion in private?” The vidcams, evidently finished with Bel, were zooming back toward him.

His head swiveled around at a breathless cry of, “Miles!” Also zooming toward him was Ekaterin, Roic lumbering at her shoulder. Nicol and Garnet Five followed in floaters. Pale of face and wide of eye, Ekaterin strode across the detritus in the lobby, gripped his hands, and, at his crooked smile, hugged him fiercely. Fully conscious of the vidcams avidly circling, he hugged her back, making sure that no journalists alive, no matter how many arms or legs they possessed, could resist putting this one up front and center. A human-interest shot, yeah.

Roic said apologetically, “I tried to stop her, m'lord, but she insisted on coming here.”

“It's all right,” said Miles in a muffled voice.

Ekaterin murmured unhappily in his ear, “I thought this was a safe place. Itfelt safe. The quaddies seemed like such peaceful people.”

“The majority of them undoubtedly are,” Miles said. Reluctantly, he released her, though he still kept a firm grip on one hand. They stood back and regarded each other anxiously.

Across the lobby, Nicol flew to Bel with much the same look on her face as had been on Ekaterin's, and the vidcams flocked after her.

Miles asked Roic quietly, “How far did you get on Solian?”

“Not far, m'lord. I decided to start with the Idris , and got all the access codes from Brun and Molino all right, but the quaddies wouldn't permit me to board her. I was about to call you.”

Miles grinned briefly. “Bet I can fix that now, by damn.”

Greenlaw returned to invite the Barrayarans to step into the hostel management's meeting room, hastily cleared as a refuge.

Miles tucked Ekaterin's hand into his arm, and they followed; he shook his head regretfully at a reporter who flitted purposefully toward them, and one of Greenlaw's Union Militia guards made a stern warding motion. Thwarted, the quaddie journalist pounced on Garnet Five instead. With a performer's reflex, she welcomed him with a blinding smile.