Страница 35 из 75
It all rang sufficiently true that he set Roic to collecting copies of the Rudra 's security records, with particular reference to Passenger Firka, and sent Bel off with the techs to cross-check the other three infirmaries without him. Miles returned to the Kestrel and handed off his new sample to Lieutenant Smolyani to convey promptly to the Prince Xav , then settled down to run a search for Firka's present location. He tracked him to the second of the two hostels taken up with the impounded ships' passengers, but the quaddie on security duty there reported that the man had signed out for the evening before di
Frowning, he called the first hostel to check on Dubauer. The Betan/Cetagandan herm/ba/whatever had indeed returned safely from the Idris , but had left again after di
He resca
Bel was yawning. “Nothing exciting,” the herm reported. “I think we got it in one. I sent the medtechs back to the hostel with a security escort to tuck 'em into bed. What's next?”
Miles chewed gently on the side of his finger. “Wait for the surgeon to report identifications on the two samples I sent over to the Prince Xav . Wait for Firka and Dubauer to return to their hostels, or else go ru
Roic, who had begun to look alarmed, relaxed again. “Good thinking, m'lord,” he murmured gratefully.
“Sounds like a golden opportunity to sleep, to me,” opined Bel.
Miles, to his irritation, was finding Bel's yawns contagious. Miles had never quite mastered their old mercenary colleague Commodore Tung's formidable ability to sleep anywhere, any time a break in the action permitted. He was sure he was still too keyed up to doze. “A nap, maybe,” he granted grudgingly.
Bel, intelligently, at once seized the chance to go home to Nicol for a time. Overriding the herm's argument that it was a bodyguard, Miles made Bel take a quaddie patroller along. Regretfully, Miles decided to wait until he had heard back from the surgeon to call and wake up Chief Ve
Ve
Replacing the question of who would want to shoot a harmless elderly Betan herm shepherding, well, sheep, with the question of who would want to shoot a Cetagandan ba smuggling a secret human—or superhuman—cargo of inestimable value, at least to the Star Cr?che . . . opened up the range of possible complications in an extremely disturbing fashion. Miles had already quietly decided that Passenger Firka was due for an early rendezvous with fast-penta, with quaddie cooperation if Miles could get it, or without. But, upon reflection, it was doubtful that the truth drug would work on a ba. He entertained brief, wistful fantasies of older interrogation methods. Something from the ancestral era of Mad Emperor Yuri, perhaps, or great-great-grandfather Count Pierre “Le Sanguinaire” Vorrutyer.
He rolled over in his narrow bunk, conscious of how lonely the silence of his cabin was without the reassuring rhythmic breath of Ekaterin overhead. He had gradually become used to that nightly presence. This marriage thing was getting to be a habit, one of his better ones. He touched the chrono on his wrist, and sighed. She was probably asleep by now. Too late to call and wake her just to listen to his blither. He counted over the days to Aral Alexander and Helen Natalia's decanting. Their travel margin was narrowing each day he fooled around here. His brain was putting together a twisted jingle to an old nursery tune, something about fast-penta and puppy dog tails early in the morning, when he mercifully drifted off.
* * *
“M'lord?”
Miles snapped alert at Roic's voice on the cabin intercom. “Yes?”
“The Prince Xav 's surgeon is on the secured comconsole. I told him to hold, you'd wish to be wakened.”
“Yes.” Miles glanced at the glowing numerals of the wall chrono; he'd been asleep about four hours. Plenty enough for now. He reached for his jacket. “On my way.”
Roic, again—no, still—in uniform, waited in the increasingly familiar little wardroom.
“I thought I told you to get some sleep,” Miles said. “Tomorrow—today, it is now, could be a long one.”
“I was checking through the Rudra 's security vids, m'lord. Think I might have something.”
“All right. Show me them after this, then.” He slid into the station chair, powered up the security cone, and activated the com vid image.
The senior fleet surgeon, who by the collar tabs on his green uniform held a captain's rank, looked to be one of the young and fit New Men of Emperor Gregor's progressive reign; by his bright, excited eyes, he wasn't regretting his lost night's sleep much. “My Lord Auditor. Captain Chris Clogston here. I have your blood work.”
“Excellent. What have you found?”
The surgeon leaned forward. “The most interesting was the stain on that handkerchief of yours. I'd say it was Cetagandan haut blood, without question, except that the sex chromosomes are decidedly odd, and instead of the extra pair of chromosomes where they usually assemble their genetic modifications, there are two extra pairs.”
Miles gri
“Yes, my lord.”
No wonder Dubauer had tried to retrieve that bloodied handkerchief. Quite aside from blowing its cover, high-level Star Cr?che gene work was not the sort of thing the haut ladies cared to have circulating at large, not unless they'd released it themselves, filtered through a few select Cetagandan ghem clans via their haut trophy wives and mothers. Granted, the haut ladies saved their greatest vigilance for the genes they gated in to their well-guarded genome, generations-long work of art that it was. Miles wondered how tidy a profit one might make, offering pirate copies of those cells he'd inadvertently collected. Or maybe not—this ba wasn't, clearly, their latest work. A near-century out of date, in fact.