Diplomatic Immunity (Miles Vorkosigan Adventures)
Lois McMaster Bujold
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A rich Komarran merchant fleet has been impounded at Graf Station, in distant Quaddiespace, after a bloody incident on the station docks involving a security officer from the convoy's Barrayaran military escort. Lord Miles Vorkosigan of Barrayar and his wife, Lady Ekaterin, have other things on their minds.
fleet surgeon's lips pursed in medical displeasure behind his faceplate. He edged forward to glance at a monitor. “Blood pressure's way up, too. I think it's time to knock the poor bugger back out.” “Wait.” Miles elbowed to the edge of Bel's bunk to put himself in Bel's line of sight, staring down at the herm in wild hope. Bel's head jerked. The eyelids flickered up; the eyes widened. The blue lips tried to move again. Bel licked them, took a long inhalation, and tried once more. “Adm'ral!
sample,” Clogston went on, “was Solian II—that is, Lieutenant Solian's synthesized blood. Identical to the earlier specimen—same batch, I'd say.” “Good! Now we're getting somewhere.” Where, for God's sake? “Thank you, Captain. This is invaluable. Go get some sleep, you've earned it.” The surgeon, disappointment writ plainly on his face at this dismissal without further explication, signed off. Miles turned back to Roic in time to catch him stifling a yawn. The armsman looked embarrassed, and
to discuss this in front of that distressed young lady. But Garnet Five is known to, um, favor exotic downsiders, and the Betan herm is, after all, a Betan herm. Simple explanations, after all.” Half a dozen mildly outraged arguments coursed through Miles's mind, to be promptly rejected. He wasn't supposed to know Bel that well. Not that someone who did know Bel would be in the least shocked by Venn's delicate suggestion . . . no. Bel's sexual tastes might be eclectic, but the herm wasn't the
burning pain eased. Across the room, the tech was scraping fragments of contaminated glove into an analyzer. Was the third man in with Bel? Was Bel still in the ice bath? Still alive? Miles took a deep, steadying breath. “Do you have any kind of a diagnosis on Portmaster Thorne yet?” “Oh, yes, it came up right away,” said Clogston in a somewhat absent tone, still sealing the second wrist wrap. “The instant we ran the first blood sample through. What the hell we can do about it is not yet
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 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