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back meekly, heartened. This woman's Vor ancestoresses had defended bastions
in war, oh, yes.
So stop talking to me and get back to work. Right?
She almost kept the shaken sob out of that last word.
Hold the fort, love, he breathed, with all the tenderness he knew.
Always. He could hear her swallow. Always.
She cut her link. He took it as a hint.
Hostage rescue, eh?
If you want something done right, do it yourself
. Come to think of it, did this ba have any idea of what Miles's former line
of work had been? Or did it assume Miles was just a diplomat, a bureaucrat,
another frightened civilian? The ba could not know which of the party had
triggered its booby trap on the repair suit remote controls, either. Not that
this biotainer suit hadn't been useless for space assault purposes even before
it had been buggered all to hell. But what tools were available here in this
infirmary that might be put to uses their manufacturers had never envisioned?
And what personnel?
The medical crew had military training, right enough, and discipline. They
also were up to their collective elbows in other tasks of the highest
priority. Miles's very last desire was to pull them away from their cramped,
busy lab bench and critical patient care to go play commando with him.
Although it may come to that.
Thoughtfully, he began walking about the infirmary's outer chamber, opening
drawers and cupboards and staring at their contents. A muddy fatigue was
beginning to drag at his edgy, adrenaline-pumped high, and a headache was
starting behind his eyes. He studiously ignored the terror of it.
He glanced through the blue light bars into the ward. The tech hurried from
the bench, heading toward the bathroom with something in his hands that
trailed looping tubes.
Captain Clogston! Miles called.
The second suited figure turned. Yes, my lord?
I'm shutting your inner door. It's supposed to close on its own in the event
of a pressure change, but I'm not sure I trust any remote-controlled equipment
on this ship at the moment. Are you prepared to move your patient into a bod
pod, if necessary?
Clogston gave him a sketchy salute of acknowledgment with a gloved hand.
Almost, my lord. We're starting construction on the second blood filter. If
the first one works as well as I hope, we should be ready to rig you up very
soon, too.
Which would tie him down to a bunk in the ward. He wasn't ready to lose
mobility yet.
Not while he could still move and think on his own.
You don't have much time then.
Regardless of what the ba does
. Thank you, Captain, Miles called. Let me know. He slid the door shut
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ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
with the manual override.
What could the ba know, from Nav and Com? More importantly, what were its
blind spots? Miles paced, considering the layout of this central nacelle: a
long cylinder divided into three decks. This infirmary lay at the stern on the
uppermost deck. Nav and Com was far forward, at the other end of the middle
deck. The internal airseal
doors of all levels lay at the three evenly spaced intersections to the
freight and drive nacelles, dividing each deck longitudinally into quarters.
Nav and Com had security vid monitors in all the outer airlocks, of course,
and safety monitors on all the inner section doors that closed to seal the
ship into airtight compartments. Blowing out a monitor would blind the ba, but
also give warning that the supposed prisoners were on the move. Blowing out
all of them, or all that could be reached, would be more confusing... but
still left the problem of giving warning. How likely was the ba to carry out
its harried, or perhaps insane, threat of ramming the station?
Dammit, this was so unprofessional
... Miles halted, arrested by his own thought.
What were the standard operating procedures for a Cetagandan agent - anyone's
agent, really - whose covert mission was going down the toilet? Destroy all
the evidence: try to make it to a safe zone, embassy, or neutral territory. If
that wasn't possible, destroy the evidence and then sit tight and endure
arrest by the locals, whoever the locals might be, and wait for one's own side
to either bail or bust one out, depending.
For the really, really critical missions, destroy the evidence and commit
suicide. This last was seldom ordered, because it was even more seldom carried
out. But the
Cetagandan ba were so conditioned to loyalty to their haut masters - and
mistresses -
Miles was forced to consider it a more realistic possibility in the present
case.
But splashy hostage-taking among neutrals or neighbors, blaring the mission
all over the news, most of all -
most of all, the public use of the Star Creche's most private arsenal... This
wasn't the modus operandi of a trained agent. This was goddamned amateur work.
And Miles's superiors used to accuse him of being a loose cannon - hah!
Not any of his most direly inspired messes had ever been as forlorn as this
one was shaping up to be - for both sides, alas. This gratifying deduction did
not, unfortunately, make the ba's next action more predictable. Quite the
reverse.
M'lord? Roic's voice rose unexpectedly from Miles's wrist com.
Roic! cried Miles joyfully. Wait. What the hell are you doing on this link? [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
