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Bel's skin was blotched, mottled red and pale; the herm's flesh, sliding and turning in the ice bath under
Miles's anxious hands, had an odd texture, by turns swollen tight or bruised like crushed fruit. Miles
called Bel's name, tried his best oldAdmiral Naismith Commands You voice, told a bad joke, all
without penetrating the herm's glazed stupor. It was a bad idea to cry in a biotainer suit, almost as bad as
throwing up in a pressure suit. You couldn't blot your eyes, or wipe your snot.
And when someone touched you unexpectedly on the shoulder, you jumped as though shot, and they
looked at you funny, through their faceplate and yours.
"Lord Auditor Vorkosigan, are you all right?" said thePrince Xav 's biotainer-swaddled surgeon, as he
knelt beside him at the vat's edge.
Miles swallowed for self-control. "I'm fine, so far. This herm's in a very bad way. I don't know what
they've told you about all this."
"I was told that I might be dealing with a possible Cetagandan-designed bioweapon in hot mode, that
had killed three so far with one survivor. The part about there being a survivor made me really wonder
about the first assertion."
"Ah, you didn't get a chance to see Guppy yet, then." Miles took a breath and ran through a brief recap
of Gupta's tale, or at least the pertinent biological aspects of it. As he spoke, his hands never stopped
shoving Bel's arms and legs back down, or ladling watery ice cubes over the herm's burning head and
neck. He finished, "I don't know if it was Gupta's amphibian genetics, or something he did, that allowed
him to survive this hell-shit when his friends didn't. Guppy said their dead fleshsteamed . I don't know
what all this heat's coming from, but it can't be just fever. I couldn't duplicate the Jacksonian's
bioengineering, but I thought I could at least duplicate the water tank trick. Wild-assed empiricism, but I
didn't think there was much time."
A gloved hand reached past him to raise Bel's eyelids, touch the herm here and there, press and probe.
"I see that."
"It'sreally important " Miles took another gulp of air to stabilize his voice "it's really important that
this patient survive. Thorne's not just any stationer. Bel was . . ." He realized he didn't know the surgeon's
security clearance. "Having the portmaster die on our watch would be a diplomatic disaster. Another
one, that is. And . . . and the herm saved my life yesterday. I owe Barrayar owes "
"My lord, we'll do our best. I have my top squad here; we'll take over now. Please, my Lord Auditor, if
you could please step out and let your man decontaminate you?"
Another suited figure, doctor or medtech, appeared through the bathroom door and held out a tray of
instruments to the surgeon. Perforce Miles moved aside, as the first sampling needle plunged past him
into Bel's unresponsive flesh. No room left in here even for his shortness, he had to admit. He withdrew.
The spare ward bunk had been turned into a lab bench. A third biotainer-clad figure was rapidly shifting
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what looked a promising array of equipment from boxes and bins piled high on a float pallet onto this
makeshift surface. The second tech returned from the bathroom and started feeding bits of Bel into the
various chemical and molecular analyzers on one end of the bunk even as the third man arranged more
devices on the other.
Roic's tall, pressure-suited figure stood waiting just past the molecular barriers across the ward door. He
was holding a high-powered laser-sonic decontaminator, familiar Barrayaran military issue. He raised an
inviting hand; Miles returned the acknowledgment.
Nothing further was to be gained in here by dithering more at the medical squad. He'd just distract them
and get in their way. He suppressed his unstrung urge to explain to them Bel's superior right, by old valor
and love, to survive. Futile. He might as well rail at the microbes themselves. Even the Cetagandans had
not yet devised a weapon that triaged for virtue before slaughtering its victims.
I promised to call Nicol. God, why did I promise that?Learning Bel's present status would surely be
more terrifying for her than knowing nothing. He would wait a little longer, at least till he received the first
report from the surgeon. If there was hope by then, he could impart it. If there was none . . .
He stepped slowly through the buzzing molecular barrier, raising his arms to turn about beneath the even
stronger sonic-scrubber/laser-dryer beam from Roic's decontaminator. He had Roic treat every part of
him, including palms, fingers, the soles of his feet, and, nervously, the insides of his thighs. The suit
protected him from what would otherwise be a nasty scorching, leaving skin pink and hair exploded off.
He didn't motion Roic to desist till they'd gone over each square centimeter. Twice.
Roic pointed to Miles's control vambrace and bellowed through his faceplate, "I have the ship's com link
relay up and running now, m'lord. You should be able to hear me through Channel Twelve, if you'll
switch over. T'medics are all on Thirteen."
Hastily, Miles switched on the suit com. "Can you hear me?"
Roic's voice sounded now beside his ear. "Yes, m'lord. Much better."
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