Kimura’s reply, whatever it was, broke up in another wash of static. A program regarding Kimura and his objective was loaded in Mark’s helmet, but the lieutenant seemed to be transmitting from somewhere other than the medical complex. A feint? If so, Kimura wasn’t drawing nearly enough enemy troops away from them. Sergeant Framingham’s sentinel, from the drop shuttle, broke in urging Quinn to hurry, almost simultaneously with an Orange Squad perimeter team reporting themselves forced off another vantage point.

“Could the shuttle land on top of this building and pick us up?” Quinn inquired, gazing at the girders overhead. Thorne frowned, following her eyes. “I think it would cave in the roof.”

“Hell. Other ideas?”

“Down,” said Mark suddenly. Both Dendarii jerked, catching themselves from flattening to the floor as they realized what he meant, through the tunnels. The Bharaputrans got in, we can get back out.”

“It’s a blind warren,” objected Quinn.

“I have a map,” said Mark. “All of Green Squad does, loaded programs. Green Squad can lead.”

Why didn’t you say so earlier?” snapped Quinn, illogically ignoring fact that there had hardly been an earlier.

Thorne nodded confirmation, and began hastily tracing through its net’s holovid map. “Can do. There’s a route—puts us up inside a building beyond your shuttle, Quinn. Bharaputran defenses are — there, and all facing the other way. And their superior numbers ’t help them, down below.”

Quinn stared down. “I hate dirt. I want vacuum, and elbow room, right, let’s do it. Sergeant Taura!”

A flurry of organization, a few more doors blown away, and the party was on the march once more, down a lift tube and into utility tunnels. Troopers scouted ahead of the main group. Taura and half a dozen clones carry Phillipi’s wrapped body, laid across the metal bars she’d torn from the catwalk railings. As if the bike-trooper still had some forlorn hope of preservation and revival. Mark found himself pacing beside the cryo-chamber on its float pallet, tugged along by the anxious medic. He glanced from the corner is eye through the transparent cover. His progenitor lay open-tried, pale and gray-lipped and still. Frost formed feathers along seals, and a blast of waste heat flowed from the refrigeration unit’s motor. It would burn like a bonfire on an enemy’s infra-red sensor. Mark shivered, and crouched in the heat. He was hungry, and terribly cold. Damn you, Miles Vorkosigan. There was so much I wanted to say to you, and now you’re not listening.

The straight tunnel they were traversing passed under another building, giving way through double doors to a wide foyer full of multiple cross-connections; several lift tubes, emergency stairs, other tunnels, and utility closets. All the doors were opened or blown open by the point-men looking for Bharaputran resistance. The air was pungent with smoke and the harsh lingering tang from plasma arc fire. Unfortunately, at this juncture the point men found what they were looking for.

The lights went out. Dendarii helmet visors snapped shut all around Mark, as they switched to infra-red. He followed suit, and stared disoriented into a world drained of color. His helmet crackled with voice communications stepping on each other as two point-men came running backwards into the foyer from separate corridors, firing plasma arcs that blared blindingly on his heat-enhanced vision. Four half-armored Bharaputran security personnel swung out of a lift tube, cutting Quinn’s column in half. So confined was the confusion, they found themselves fighting hand-to-hand. Mark was knocked down by accident by a swinging Dendarii, and crouched near the float-pallet.

“This isn’t shielded,” the medic groaned, slapping the cryo-chamber as arcs of fire whipped by close overhead. “One square hit, and …”

“Into the lift tube, then,” yelled Mark at him. The medic nodded, and swung the pallet around into the nearest dark opening free of Bharaputrans. The lift-tube was switched off, or the conflicting grav fields might have blown circuits on both tube and pallet. The medic scrambled aboard the cryo-chamber as if it were a horse, and began to sink from sight. Another trooper followed, hand over hand down the emergency ladder on the tube’s interior. Plasma arc fire struck Mark three times in rapid succession, as he scrambled to his feet, knocking him down again. His mirror-field shed a roar of blue crackles as he rolled toward the tube through waves of heat. He swung down the ladder after the trooper, out of the line of fire.

But not for long. A Bharaputran helmet flashed above them in the entrance, then plasma arc fire followed them downward with a glare like lightning in the tube. The trooper helped the medic yank and heave the float-pallet out of this sudden shooting gallery and through the lowest entrance, and ducked after. Mark scrambled in their wake, feeling like a human torch, netted and entwined with racketing blue incandescence. How many shots had that been? He’d lost count. How many more could his shielding take before it gave way and burned out?

The trooper took a firing stance aimed back into the lift tube, but no Bharaputran followed them. They stood in a pocket of dark and quiet, shouts and shots echoing faintly down the tube from the battle overhead. This was a much smaller foyer, with only two exits. Dim low emergency lighting along the floor gave a falsely cozy sense of warmth.

“Hell,” said the medic, staring upward. “I think we’ve just cut ourselves off.”

“Not necessarily,” said Mark. Neither the medic nor the trooper were Green Squad, but Mark’s helmet of course had Green Squad programming. He called up the holomap, found their current location, And let the helmet’s computer sketch a route. “You can get there from this level, too. It’s a bit more roundabout, but you’re less likely encounter Bharaputrans for that very reason.”

“Let me see,” demanded the medic.

Half-reluctant, half-relieved, Mark gave his helmet up to him. The medic jammed it on his head, and studied the red line snaking through the 3-D schematic grid of the medical complex, projected before his eyes. Mark risked a darting glance up the lift tube. No Bararaputrans loomed overhead, and the sounds of combat were muffled, as if growing more distant. He ducked back to find the trooper looking at him, unsettling glints of his eyes gleaming through his visor. I’m not your damned Admiral. Mores the pity, eh? The trooper probably was of the opinion that the Bharaputrans had shot the wrong short man. Mark didn’t even need words to get that message. He ached.

“Yeah,” the medic decided. His jaw tightened, behind his visor. “If you hurry, you might even get there ahead of Captain Quinn,” said Mark. He still held the medic’s helmet. There were no more sounds from overhead. Should he run after Quinn’s moving fire-fight, stay and try to help guide and guard the float-pallet? He was not sure if he was more afraid of Quinn, or of the Bharaputran fire her party drew. Either way he’d probably be safer with the cryo-chamber. He took a deep breath. “You … keep my helmet. I’ll take yours.” Th medic and the trooper were both glowering at him with disfavor, tellingly. “I’ll go after Quinn and the clones.” His clones. Would Quinn have any regard at all for their lives?

“Go, then,” said the medic. He and the trooper aimed the float-pallet out the doors, and didn’t look back. They obviously had him judged as more of a liability than an asset, and felt well-rid of him. Grimly, he climbed the ladder back up the lift tube. He peeked cautiously across the foyer floor, as it came to his eye level. A lot of property damage. A sprinkler system had added steam to the choking smoke. One brown-clad body lay prone, unmoving. The floor was wet and slippery. He swung out of the tube and darted skittishly out the corridor the Dendarii company must have taken, if they were sticking heir planned route. More plasma arc damage assured him he was the right track.