Miles didn't marvel at this. Emergency cryoprep was a common enough medical procedure that even he had learned it, at least theoretically, as part of military field-aid. Under nonemergency conditions there were doubtless more refinements, resulting in less cryo-amnesia and other unwanted side-effects, after. Less trauma to start with left less trauma to recover from, but to choose to go down to that darkness in cold blood, so to speak, while still breathing . . . "It's still frightening to think about," he said honestly.
"For most folks, it's a last choice, not a first one. We all come to it in time, though. No one wants to go of a coronary in the night and not-wake-up warm and rotting. Safer not to wait too long." Tenbury's lips twisted. "Although some of the corps are trying to increase market share these days by encouraging folks to freeze early. I'm not sure if the math works out."
"It does seem an inelastic demand, yes," agreed Miles in fascination. "More customers now can only mean fewer later. A short-term strategy for such a long-term enterprise."
"Yah, except maybe for those who'd miss their chance."
It was Miles's turn to tilt his head in consideration. "I suppose they're not up to one-hundred-percent market saturation, even now. What about the religious types?"
"Oh, yah, there are still a few refusers."
"Refusers?"
"You're not from around here, are you? Figured from your accent, but I'd have thought you must have been on Kibou longer. In order to end up here, I mean."
"It was something of an accident. I'm glad I stumbled on you, though."
Refusers, like revives, were another item the careful corps tours had neglected to mention, but they hardly needed even Tenbury's brief explanation, which he obligingly supplied, for Miles to figure out. Tenbury's judgment was that those who chose burial over freezing for superstitious reasons were a self-limiting phenomenon. Miles thought of those fringe utopian communities that had practiced strict celibacy and thus died out within the first couple of generations, or non-generations, and nodded provisional agreement.
Tenbury then kindly took Miles through the far door, out of the workshop and into another corridor—thankfully lit, though even with illumination the general effect was of an unsettling cross between a space station corridor and a morgue. There he opened an empty cryo-drawer, recently reconditioned, and pointed out its features, rather like a very restrained used-vehicle salesman.
"It seems . . . small," said Miles.
"Not much head room," Tenbury agreed. "But you're past sitting up suddenly by the time you arrive in it. I've often wondered if folks would retain any memory of their time in these, but the revives I've met all say not." He slid the drawer closed and gave it a fond thump to seat the latch.
"You just go to sleep, and then wake up in a future somebody else picked for you. No dreams," Miles agreed. "Blink out, blink back in. Like anesthesia, but longer." An intimate preview of death, and doubtless a lot less traumatic when the blink out part wasn't accomplished by a needle-grenade blowing out one's chest, Miles had to allow. He spread his palm on the drawer-front. "What happens to all the poor frozen people"—or frozen poor people—"if this place is discovered by the authorities?"
A brief, humorless grin ruffled the beard-thatch. "Well, they can't just let us thaw and rot, then bury us. That's illegal."
"Murder?"
"Of a sort. One of the grades of murder, anyway."
So this place was not as futile an effort as Miles had first guessed. Somebody was thinking ahead. How far? Who might find the future legal responsibility for these frozen souls on their hands? The municipality of Northbridge? Some unwitting entrepreneur, buying the rediscovered property for back taxes without inspecting it first? Cheating death, indeed. "Illegal at the moment, then. What happens if the law changes?"
Tenbury shrugged. "Then several thousand people will have died calmly and without pain, in hope and not despair. And won't know the difference." He added after a thoughtful pause, "That would be an ugly sort of world to wake up in anyway."
"Mm, I don't suppose the authorities would go to the trouble and expense of reviving folks just to let them die again immediately. Blink out, and . . . stay blinked." There were worse ways to arrive at an identical fate. Miles had seen many of them.
"Well, I need to get back to work," Tenbury hinted away his uninvited visitor. "I hope this helped you."
"Yes, yes it did. Thank you." Miles let Tenbury shepherd him back through the shop to the first corridor. "I suppose I'd better go feed Jin's pets. I did promise the boy I would."
"Odd kid, that. I had hopes for a bit he might apprentice to me, but he's more interested in animals than machinery." Tenbury sighed, whether in regret or bafflement Miles was not quite sure.
"Um . . ." said Miles, staring up the darkened corridor.
"First door on your left," said Tenbury, and thoughtfully held his office door wide to light the way till Miles had found it in the gloom. The stair rail and a careful count of the turns guided Miles after that. He emerged again in the basement near the cafeteria, and from there found his way back up to Jin's roof via the interior stairs.
Emerging into the daylight and greeted by milling chickens, he thought, Damn, but I hope the boy makes it back here soon.
The big downtown tube-tram transfer station was just as confusing going back as forward, Jin found when he'd taken his second wrong turn. The crowd made him nervous, and it was only going to get worse as the time edged toward rush hour. He needed to get out of here. Scowling, he turned around a couple of times, reoriented himself, and made his way upstream through an entry corridor, bumping a lot of folks going the other way.
What was in that big thick envelope Counsel Vorlynkin had handed to him? It crackled against his skin. Entering the second-level rotunda, he dodged out of the way of a woman with a pram, then leaned his shoulders against a pillar and fished out the letter. To his disappointment, it wasn't sealed with a bloody thumbprint, but it was certainly sealed. No peeking. He sighed and thrust it back inside his shirt.
He finally found the right escalator, and rode it up two flights to the top-level gallery. He was worried about his animals. Would Miles-san take proper care of them? You never could tell, with adults. They pretended to take you seriously, but then laughed behind your back at the things that were important to you. Or said that because you were just a kid, you would forget it all soon. But Miles-san had seemed to genuinely like Jin's rats, letting Jinni sit on his shoulder and nibble at his hair without flinching. Jin could tell when grownups didn't really appreciate how sleek and funny and friendly rats could be, and they didn't bite hard at all unless they were accidentally squeezed, and who could blame them for that?
The squeeze on Jin's shoulder made him jump and yelp. If he'd been equipped for it, he might have bitten the hand as well, but all he could do was twist and stare upward. Straight into the face of his worst nightmare.
Brown hair, a pleasant smile, the blue uniform of municipal security. Not just a tube-tram safety officer; their uniforms were green. A real policewoman, the sort who'd come for his mother.
"What's your name, child?" The voice was friendly, but the undertone steely.
Jin opened his mouth: "Jin . . ." Oh, no, that wouldn't do. Lying to grownups made him scared inside, but he managed, "Jin, um, Vorkson."
She blinked. "What kind of name is that?"
"My Dad was a galactic. But he's dead now," Jin added with hasty prudence. And half truth, for that matter. He tried not to think about the funeral.
"Does your mother let you come downtown alone? It's school hours, you know."
"Um, yes. She sent me on an errand for her."
"Let's call her, then."
Jin held out his skinny wrists. His stomach felt cold and quivery. "I don't have a wristcom, ma'am."
"That's all right. You can come along to the security booth, and we can call her from there."
"No!" In a panic now, Jin tried to wrench away. Somehow, he found his arm cranked up
behind his back, hurting. His shirt tail came loose, and the envelope dropped to the pavement with a loud slap. "No, wait!" He tried to dive for it. Without releasing his arm, the woman scooped it up first, staring at it with a deepening frown.
She murmured to her own wristcom, "Code Six, Dan. Level One."
In moments, another policeman loomed. "What ho, Michiko? Catch us a little shoplifter?"
"I'm not sure. Truant, maybe. This young fellow needs to come to the booth and call his mother. And get ID'd, I think."
"Right."
Jin's other arm was taken in an even stronger fist. Helplessly, he let himself be marched along. He was wild for a chance to break away, but neither grip slackened.
The security booth had big glass windows overlooking the rotunda. It was cool inside, and when the door shut a wonderful silence fell, which usually would be a relief to Jin, but not now. A lot of screens were running, and Jin realized that some of them were from vidcams that looked right into people's faces as they went up or down on the escalators. He hadn't noticed them among the noise and confusion and hurry of the place. The woman plunked him down in a swivel chair. His feet didn't quite reach the floor.
The wide man, Dan, held up a light pen. "Let me see your eyes, child."
Retina scan? A red flash. Jin squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he could, and clapped his palms over his face for good measure. But it was already too late. He heard the man moving away to his comconsole.
"He's scared, Dan," said the woman. Jin peeked through his fingers to see her holding up the envelope, squeezing and rattling it like a birthday present. "Think the reason might be in here?"
A ping from the console. "Aha. I believe we have a match. That was quick." Officer Dan looked up and asked, "Is your name Jin Sato?"
"No!"
"It says here he's been missing for over a year."
Without letting go of Jin's arm, the woman edged around to look at the holoscreen. "Good heavens! I'll bet his family will be relieved to get him back!"
"No, they won't! Let me go!"
"Where have you been hiding for a whole year, son?" Officer Dan asked, not unkindly.
"And what is this?" Michiko asked, hefting the envelope and frowning.
"You can't have that! Give it back!"
"So what's in it?"
"It's just a letter. A, a very personal letter. I'm supposed to deliver it. For, for some men."
Both officers went rigid. "What sort of men?" asked Michiko.
"Just . . . men."
"Friends? Relatives?"
Relatives were not a good thing, in Jin's world. "No. I just met them today."
"Where did you meet them?"
Jin's mouth clamped shut.
"Not addressed. Not postal-sealed. No legal reason we can't peek, is there?" said Dan.
The woman nodded and handed the envelope over. Dan popped a folding knife and slit it open from the bottom, holding it above the countertop. A thick wad of currency thumped out, followed by a fluttering note.
It was more money than Jin had seen in one place in his life. From their widening eyes, it was more money than the two security officers were used to seeing in one lump, too, certainly in the hands of a kid.
Dan riffled the wad and vented a long, amazed whistle.
Michiko said, "Drug ring, do you think? Feelie-dream smugglers?"
"It could be—gods, it could be anything. Congratulations, Michiko. Shouldn't wonder if there's a promotion in this." Staring at the envelope with more respect, Dan belatedly pulled a pair of thin plastic gloves from his pocket and donned them before he picked up the note. It seemed to be printed on half a flimsy.
Dan read aloud, "We must trust that you know what you are doing. Please contact us in person as soon as possible." He turned the note in the light. "No address, no date, no names, no signature. Nothing. Veery suspicious."
Michiko bent to look Jin sternly in the eyes. "Where did you meet these bad men, child?"
"They weren't bad men. They were just . . . men. Friends of a friend."
"Where were you taking all this money?"
"I didn't know it was money!"
Michiko's eyebrows rose. "Do you believe that?" she asked her partner.
"Yah," said Dan, "or he might have taken off with it."
"Good point."
"I wouldn't have! Even if I had known!"
"No one can threaten you now, Jin," Michiko said more gently. "You're safe."
"No one did threaten me!" Jin had never felt less safe in his life. And if he blabbed, Suze and Ako and Tenbury and everyone who had befriended him wouldn't be safe, either. And Lucky and the ratties and the chickens, and big, beautiful Gyre . . . Lips tight as he could press them, Jin stared back at the officers.
"Call Youth Services to pick up the boy," said Michiko. "The rest of the evidence had better go to Vice, at a guess."
"Yah," said Dan, his gloved hands sliding Jin's precious envelope, the wad of cash, and the note into a transparent plastic bag.
"My animals," Jin whispered. Such a simple task Miles-san had entrusted him with, and he'd screwed it all up. He'd screwed everything up. Between his scrunched eyelids, tears began to leak.
With a grating noise and a puff of powder, the bolt popped out of the concrete.
"Finally," breathed Roic.
Chapter Five
Roic waited for dusk to deepen, and for the occasional echo of footsteps along the gallery to fall silent for a good long time, before venturing a cautious reconnoiter. The door lock yielded to force, or rather, the flimsy doorframe splintered and gave up the mechanism whole, more loudly than he would have liked, but no one called out or came to investigate. Crouching to slip beneath any view from the windows, bare feet silent on the boards but for an occasional tiny clink from the chain swathing his ankle, he discovered that the gallery wrapped the rectangular building on three sides, with stairs down on either end. About a dozen rooms like his lined this level. There was no third storey.
Another building, with faint yellow gleams leaking from its windows, lay down the slope to the right. Obscured in the trees behind it seemed to be a parking area, but a marked lack of security lighting made the details invisible—both to Roic and to anyone passing overhead in a lightflyer, he guessed. Right now he was grateful for the shadows. He slipped around to the far end. A third building, vaguely shedlike, sat low and black in the gloom down at the border of the level scrubland. Roic wondered if there'd been a fire, to so clear out the crowded conifers.
Roic's heart nearly failed him when a voice above his head hissed, "Roic! Up here!"
He jerked his head back to see a pale smudge of a face peering over the edge of the roof. A long black braid swung forward over the figure's shoulder, triggering recognition and relief. "Dr. Durona? Raven? So they got you, too!"
"Sh! Not so loud. We were in the same lift van. You were out cold. Come up, before someone comes back." A pair of lean arms extended downward; Raven was apparently lying prone. "Careful of my hands . . ."
With no more noise than a grunt and a scrape, Roic scrambled up to the flat rooftop. Their careful foot-slides making no thumps that could be heard through a ceiling below, they took shelter of sorts in the lee of a vent housing.
Raven Durona could have passed for a Kibou-daini native—a slim intellectual Eurasian in body and face, with a high-bridged nose and straight black hair to his waist—till he opened his mouth and that un-local accent came out. Delegate from the Durona Medical Group on Escobar, he'd been the only other person at the cryo-conference Roic had known, and moderately well at that, but m'lord, inexplicably, had signed them away from each other. Raven had accepted the signal with the merest nod and eyebrow twitch, and steered around Roic and m'lord thereafter. Leaving m'lord clear, Roic realized in retrospect, to trawl for his own targets.
Roic lowered himself to sit cross-legged, the Escobaran cryo-surgeon wrapped his arms around his knees, and they put their faces close together.
In
a nearly voiceless murmur, Roic said, "Seen any guards?"
"No, but our captors are still awake," Dr. Durona returned in a matching tone. "They're mostly still down in the dining hall, but some wander back up here at random. They sleep below us."
"How'd you get out of your room?"
"Surgery on my bathroom window-lock."
An exit doubtless aided by the fact that the man was lithe as a snake; Roic's shoulders would not have fit. "And the chains?"
"Chains? You had chains? Special, Roic!"
"Never mind. How far are we from Northbridge, did you see? And where t'hell are we?"
"About a hundred, hundred and fifty kilometers, I'd guess. The one glimpse I had was all forest as far as I could see. There don't seem to be any roads—everything must come in by lightflyer or lift van. This place used to be some kind of lake resort for Northbridge weekenders, before the dam blew out in a storm and the lake ran down the river. The rebuild got tied up in lawsuits, so the resort has been defunct for a couple of years. One of our kidnappers owns it, turns out. Which may have been how the Legacy Liberators came up with this crazed scheme in the first place."
"What t'hell are they doing—no, wait. First, have you seen Lord Vorkosigan?"
Raven shook his dark head. "I thought I saw them tackle him, back in the lobby when they grabbed me and you were throwing people into the lift tube and bellowing at them to keep climbing—I swear some of those poor delegates were more scared of you than of our attackers—but I haven't seen him since. There are only six other hostages here, plus me and you. All locked in for the night. It seems the N.H.L.L. was setting up to host three times that many. They're not best pleased with you for that."
"How many bad guys?"
"What a Barrayaran turn of phrase! About a dozen here, at a guess. I've not seen them all together. They take it in shifts to harass us."
"Huh?"
"Lecturing us, mostly. About the stern and glorious goals of the New Hope Legacy Liberators."