Fic: It's a long way to Escobar (10/20)
It's a long way to Escobar
by jetta_e_rus aka Georgette
Vorkosiverse. Slash, PG-13. Drama, action, a detective story.
Translated from Russian.
The table of contents is here
Chapter Ten,
where Zarowski leafs through the pharmaceutical guide and Illyan notices some logical incoherences.
***
Illyan strolled along the room, recovering his usual coolness with the aid of many ordinary activities. He had to put away the recently taken chair and to wipe away from the surface of the comconsole a few oily shining drops, which had trickled down the neck of Vorrutyer's bottle. No, he had a better idea. He went to the bathroom, took a sterile dry tissue from the first-aid kit, used it to wipe clean the dark glass, and sealed the tissue to the waterproof cover. These moves were useless but worked through. When he concealed the little cover in the pocket of his tunic, he had already restored the state of an analyst's concentration, unshattered by any emotions.
What had Vorrutyer wanted? Why had he longed to get in here?
During the three weeks of the flight the Commander-in-Chief had never deigned to visit Vorkosigan's cabin. He had baited Aral at dinner, called him on the carpet in his room, tested for his strength at every Staff briefing, kept on trying to catch him in a corridor, but never had paid a personal visit. But just today, when Vorkosigan was lying on his bed like a tree cut down, open to injury, Vorrutyer had taken a chance to drop in for a round of drinking.
The official version said that Vorkosigan had an ulcer attack. Of course, one could suppose that the well-known sadist, Ges Vorrutyer, had been going to force the suffering patient to stand at attention and report properly. It would be a kind of discipline parade, where the ulcer pain would be a substitute for lead-lined rubber hoses. But this explanation didn't square with the lonely visit and the bottle. Had this bottle been a gift? In that case, an unsuitable one.
Had Vorrutyer meant some sexual outlook? The unconscious body didn't fit in with such plans. On second thought, Illyan understood that Vorrutyer hadn't made any advances at him, either; it had been his usual provocation towards 'hypocritical martinets'. Thank God! Illyan would have been killed by the sudden revelation that all the High Vors were mad after his fatal seductiveness. He had to set himself straight now and not fall under the scandalous reputation of the Co-Commanders.
What had Vorrutyer felt when he had come in? Illyan considered that it had been curiosity and... frustration, just in that order. But Vorrutyer hadn't already felt this frustration when he had arrived; he hadn't brought it with him from this meeting that Vorkosigan had dared to miss.
It would make sense if Vorrutyer had expected to see Vorkosigan not suffering from an ulcer but blind drunk, not controlling himself. This assumption fit with the bottle, the private visit and the following disappointment. But there was just one snag; only two people, Illyan himself and Zarowski, had been well-informed about Vorkosigan's true state.
However during two earlier hours, Aral had been beyond Illyan's surveillance... He sighed, glanced aside to the sleeping man and made sure that his breathing was quiet enough that Aral wasn't going to wake up. Then he sat down decidedly at the comconsole and deliberately turned off the audio channel. The comconsole wasn't shut down, only hibernating, and even an ImpSec trainee could unseal the standard blocking program of the sleeping mode. The trouble was rather ethical than technical; it was equally reprehensible to rummage through Vorkosigan's private files and to pry into his closet, which Illyan had been just doing a half-hour ago. A spy was a spy, indeed. But this was useless; Illyan's assumption proved to be wrong, because nobody had called Vorkosigan lately, according to the recorder, therefore nobody had had chance to see him tipsy.
But Vorrutyer had known it already.
Did that fact mean bugs? Illyan had examined the room for them a day ago, but... He rushed to his cabin to take the scanner and returned at such high speed that this could suggest a suspicion to everybody who came along. As one said, 'when the officer was running, it excited laughing in time of peace and provoked panic in time of war'. Illyan himself didn't tend to panic now but he felt quite uncomfortable, as he doubted his own competence. However it was in vain; the cabin was totally bug-free.
Nevertheless Vorrutyer had been well informed about what had happened in the closed cabin where no bugs had been installed. They had taught ImpSec analysts that after casting-out all that was disproved, only truth would remain. If the Commander couldn't get to know about Vorkosigan's intoxication before his coming then... he had plotted it in advance.
Motive, method and opportunity composed the classical trio of every investigation. At least the first clause was evident, so Vorrutyer would get a great pleasure and advantage from Vorkosigan's drunken rebellion in the presence of other officers. But the rest was more intricate. As for the method... why did Zarowski still dawdle over his pharmaceutical guide? Illyan would have to go to see him.
Illyan blocked the access to the com, tore away a flimsy and wrote in a bold hand the new door code on it. He added the request to Vorkosigan to ring him up, and then laid this sheet at the center of the black glass surface. If Aral should wake up in his right mind, it would be impossible to him not to notice the flimsy; else he would be locked in the cabin by the next half-hour.
Zarowski's search was close to finished. The surgeon had gotten into the database thoroughly. The heaps of open files flowed over the vid plate, and the reverse side of the plastic flimsy on the console was scribbled all over with notes. It was the correct choice; one could destroy the hand-written document instantly and without a trace, but a file in the com net could be detected by any curious man with a high access level, for example, the Chief of the Prince's personal security.
"See, Illyan. I have here only our domestic pharmacological registry. The Betans certainly have many analogues of our medications, but nobody has managed to load their data to the ship's database; as far as I see, it would be amiss and undesirable to send a query home. Didn't you find the packing? So we should take all the range of medications containing the required matter. Look and remember, I'll comment upon them. We deal with a strong anxiolytic, in other words, a sedative; you have to know this term. Usually it removes irritability, emotional tension or aggression. But this specific sedative, coupled with alcohol, caused a brief paradoxical reaction as aggression with psychomotor agitation instead of depression, then it produces quickly increased somnolence, sometimes right up to a coma. The effective period is... yes, from a half-hour to two hours from the time of taking a dose, that fits to our situation. Illyan, when did you see Vorkosigan last this afternoon?
"At lunch," he managed to put in at last.
"Did you notice anything odd in his behavior?"
Illyan considered and concluded, "Nothing."
"So we have the lower time boundary. As for the medication itself, a sufficient dose of active substance is some thousandths of milligram per one kilo of weight. It is produced in the form of capsules for oral dose or ampoules for injections. By the way, the latter is unlikely; I didn't notice any marks of injection. You could make yourself sure of it, but you should remember the two injections I have made. Of course, our ship's infirmary synthesizer hasn't a prescription of this medication and couldn't produce it, since it's useless on the battle field. But I have found some notes about this medication's former administration in medical files of the ship crew. A few persons; here is the list."
The list contained six items; it was very little for a crew of five hundred men. Illyan hadn't encountered the first five names before, but the sixth was Sergeant Bothari. Illyan verified his ID; yes, it was exactly Vorrutyer's batman, not his namesake. The case record had a treatment from five years ago, but this remoteness didn't prevent Illyan from pricking up his ears.
He stuck his finger into the row of the list. "The Sergeant is considered now sane and sound?"
"His treatment was cancelled a long time ago." The colonel frowned and answered from memory, without making inquiries to the medical files. He clearly had focused his permanent attention on Bothari due to the sergeant's unusual status. "I haven't done his checkup, but his files confirm that he is fit for combatant service. And..."
"Just a minute," Illyan interrupted him, informally holding a restrained palm up. "I need to focus."
He had the name and the exact date so this search in memory was quick; he found encrypted data of the checkup and treatment. Then he passed on to the records of Bothari's files related to the time of Vorkosigan's captaincy. He was surprised to see in the Sergeant's files the mention of assault and battery towards the captain and of the repeated detention, including the arrest on suspicion of mutiny. It was followed by the commendation for heroism during the scotching of a mutiny. Had it been the same mutiny? Illyan understood nothing. But the relations between Vorkosigan and this strange fellow hadn't been unclouded, so friendly that Bothari could call on him in a familiar way and offer a sedative pill from his own old reserve.
The parts of this puzzle didn't fit together; and the surgeon, who had previously been short with him, stared inquiringly at Illyan now, and this stare confused him. Well, he had the list of persons and names, and Zarowski couldn't give him more now.
"Let's forget about Bothari. Is there anything else related to this stuff that I need to know? The side effects or precautions?"
"The common warnings, I think," Zarowski sighed. "Vorkosigan should abstain from any alcoholic drink for at least the next day, and, for the future, not take any psychotropic medicine without consulting with me beforehand. At the table he should drink only soda water, that would blend well with his ulcer patient's image. I'll tell him this myself, though."
"Thank you, sir." Illyan saluted politely and excused himself, returning to Vorkosigan.
The situation in the Commodore's cabin hadn't changed a bit. Vorkosigan slept, breathing heavily. This picture was so calm and peaceful that Illyan suppressed an unexpected yawn. Perhaps he should go now to his cabin and follow the example of his senior officer... as regards the sound sleep, not the hard drinking, of course. But Illyan's old custom to work at night, that he owed to Ezar, prevented him from falling asleep. But he had inherited from his former job more than one habit. He should not react involuntary in that way to the fact that his senior officer was sleeping at arm's length from him...
Well, so get down to work. Let's examine the new figure (putting it more precisely, the known one).
Bothari was Vorrutyer's industrious servant, who had even waited on him at table despite the fact that other diners had lost their appetite at the sight of his remarkable face. Today's lunch had been the last case when Bothari and Vorkosigan had been at once in the same room. What did it mean? Nothing. Of course, Vorkosigan had taken nothing from Sergeant Bothari and never talked with him in the Crown Prince's presence, since Serg had made a strong rule of 'inadmissibility of fraternization across ranks'. Nevertheless, Bothari had waited on the table. Could he have secretly handed over something to Vorkosigan?
At the ordinary lunch the waiters only filled the officers' glasses and put away used plates. This time they had poured out wine from some "common" bottles, and the officers had helped themselves to salad, main course and garnish, which had been installed at the center of the table. All plates and dishes had been laid on the table in advance. Except... one wineglass. Yes, the very wineglass that Vorrutyer had shattered.
Illyan silently named himself a blind idiot and restored the picture from his memory. As the lowest by rank at the Captain's table, he had taken up a rather uncomfortable seat, facing towards the kitchen's door and the teacart. Of course, at that very moment he had looked at Vorkosigan's face only, beseeching him without words to control himself. Now he froze the picture and examined its background frame by frame. There is the waiter's green sleeve; his hand dries up the wine stain on the tablecloth and covers it with a tissue. This is another waiter, not Bothari. Meantime the Sergeant steps to the teacart and kneels down for some reason, only his shoulder is showing. The barely audible squeak and click are heard, and the Sergeant rises, holding a wineglass in his hand. There is quite a battery of clean shining glasses on the top level of the teacart, but Bothari has taken the spare one from below, hasn't he? The steps sound; Bothari's hand extends by Vorkosigan's shoulder and put the wineglass on the table. It looks just-washed; there are tiny transparent lenses of liquid on its inner surface, but the Bordeaux washes them out. And straight away Vorrutyer proposes a final toast "For our victory!", and the officers drink upright and to the dregs.
Perhaps, Illyan was downright paranoid. And Aral had taken a sedative pill without noticing the warning about precautions. And they had only swilled out the wineglass in haste before putting it in the teacart. And Bothari had been an unskillful waiter. And Ges had acted as a Good Samaritan and come to visit an ill friend.
And pigs have wings...
Bothari was mad. Bothari was a sociopath on the verge of attacking everybody. Bothari's personal file contained multiple reprimands from Vorkosigan, including the lockup arrest for open aggression towards his commanding officer. Bothari had stunned his captain in the jungle of the nameless planet they now orbited. Bothari had a sedative in his pocket. Bothari was now a dutiful instrument of the man who was obsessed by Aral.
But Vorrutyer himself was guilty of nothing, of course!
by jetta_e_rus aka Georgette
Vorkosiverse. Slash, PG-13. Drama, action, a detective story.
Translated from Russian.
The table of contents is here
Chapter Ten,
where Zarowski leafs through the pharmaceutical guide and Illyan notices some logical incoherences.
***
Illyan strolled along the room, recovering his usual coolness with the aid of many ordinary activities. He had to put away the recently taken chair and to wipe away from the surface of the comconsole a few oily shining drops, which had trickled down the neck of Vorrutyer's bottle. No, he had a better idea. He went to the bathroom, took a sterile dry tissue from the first-aid kit, used it to wipe clean the dark glass, and sealed the tissue to the waterproof cover. These moves were useless but worked through. When he concealed the little cover in the pocket of his tunic, he had already restored the state of an analyst's concentration, unshattered by any emotions.
What had Vorrutyer wanted? Why had he longed to get in here?
During the three weeks of the flight the Commander-in-Chief had never deigned to visit Vorkosigan's cabin. He had baited Aral at dinner, called him on the carpet in his room, tested for his strength at every Staff briefing, kept on trying to catch him in a corridor, but never had paid a personal visit. But just today, when Vorkosigan was lying on his bed like a tree cut down, open to injury, Vorrutyer had taken a chance to drop in for a round of drinking.
The official version said that Vorkosigan had an ulcer attack. Of course, one could suppose that the well-known sadist, Ges Vorrutyer, had been going to force the suffering patient to stand at attention and report properly. It would be a kind of discipline parade, where the ulcer pain would be a substitute for lead-lined rubber hoses. But this explanation didn't square with the lonely visit and the bottle. Had this bottle been a gift? In that case, an unsuitable one.
Had Vorrutyer meant some sexual outlook? The unconscious body didn't fit in with such plans. On second thought, Illyan understood that Vorrutyer hadn't made any advances at him, either; it had been his usual provocation towards 'hypocritical martinets'. Thank God! Illyan would have been killed by the sudden revelation that all the High Vors were mad after his fatal seductiveness. He had to set himself straight now and not fall under the scandalous reputation of the Co-Commanders.
What had Vorrutyer felt when he had come in? Illyan considered that it had been curiosity and... frustration, just in that order. But Vorrutyer hadn't already felt this frustration when he had arrived; he hadn't brought it with him from this meeting that Vorkosigan had dared to miss.
It would make sense if Vorrutyer had expected to see Vorkosigan not suffering from an ulcer but blind drunk, not controlling himself. This assumption fit with the bottle, the private visit and the following disappointment. But there was just one snag; only two people, Illyan himself and Zarowski, had been well-informed about Vorkosigan's true state.
However during two earlier hours, Aral had been beyond Illyan's surveillance... He sighed, glanced aside to the sleeping man and made sure that his breathing was quiet enough that Aral wasn't going to wake up. Then he sat down decidedly at the comconsole and deliberately turned off the audio channel. The comconsole wasn't shut down, only hibernating, and even an ImpSec trainee could unseal the standard blocking program of the sleeping mode. The trouble was rather ethical than technical; it was equally reprehensible to rummage through Vorkosigan's private files and to pry into his closet, which Illyan had been just doing a half-hour ago. A spy was a spy, indeed. But this was useless; Illyan's assumption proved to be wrong, because nobody had called Vorkosigan lately, according to the recorder, therefore nobody had had chance to see him tipsy.
But Vorrutyer had known it already.
Did that fact mean bugs? Illyan had examined the room for them a day ago, but... He rushed to his cabin to take the scanner and returned at such high speed that this could suggest a suspicion to everybody who came along. As one said, 'when the officer was running, it excited laughing in time of peace and provoked panic in time of war'. Illyan himself didn't tend to panic now but he felt quite uncomfortable, as he doubted his own competence. However it was in vain; the cabin was totally bug-free.
Nevertheless Vorrutyer had been well informed about what had happened in the closed cabin where no bugs had been installed. They had taught ImpSec analysts that after casting-out all that was disproved, only truth would remain. If the Commander couldn't get to know about Vorkosigan's intoxication before his coming then... he had plotted it in advance.
Motive, method and opportunity composed the classical trio of every investigation. At least the first clause was evident, so Vorrutyer would get a great pleasure and advantage from Vorkosigan's drunken rebellion in the presence of other officers. But the rest was more intricate. As for the method... why did Zarowski still dawdle over his pharmaceutical guide? Illyan would have to go to see him.
Illyan blocked the access to the com, tore away a flimsy and wrote in a bold hand the new door code on it. He added the request to Vorkosigan to ring him up, and then laid this sheet at the center of the black glass surface. If Aral should wake up in his right mind, it would be impossible to him not to notice the flimsy; else he would be locked in the cabin by the next half-hour.
Zarowski's search was close to finished. The surgeon had gotten into the database thoroughly. The heaps of open files flowed over the vid plate, and the reverse side of the plastic flimsy on the console was scribbled all over with notes. It was the correct choice; one could destroy the hand-written document instantly and without a trace, but a file in the com net could be detected by any curious man with a high access level, for example, the Chief of the Prince's personal security.
"See, Illyan. I have here only our domestic pharmacological registry. The Betans certainly have many analogues of our medications, but nobody has managed to load their data to the ship's database; as far as I see, it would be amiss and undesirable to send a query home. Didn't you find the packing? So we should take all the range of medications containing the required matter. Look and remember, I'll comment upon them. We deal with a strong anxiolytic, in other words, a sedative; you have to know this term. Usually it removes irritability, emotional tension or aggression. But this specific sedative, coupled with alcohol, caused a brief paradoxical reaction as aggression with psychomotor agitation instead of depression, then it produces quickly increased somnolence, sometimes right up to a coma. The effective period is... yes, from a half-hour to two hours from the time of taking a dose, that fits to our situation. Illyan, when did you see Vorkosigan last this afternoon?
"At lunch," he managed to put in at last.
"Did you notice anything odd in his behavior?"
Illyan considered and concluded, "Nothing."
"So we have the lower time boundary. As for the medication itself, a sufficient dose of active substance is some thousandths of milligram per one kilo of weight. It is produced in the form of capsules for oral dose or ampoules for injections. By the way, the latter is unlikely; I didn't notice any marks of injection. You could make yourself sure of it, but you should remember the two injections I have made. Of course, our ship's infirmary synthesizer hasn't a prescription of this medication and couldn't produce it, since it's useless on the battle field. But I have found some notes about this medication's former administration in medical files of the ship crew. A few persons; here is the list."
The list contained six items; it was very little for a crew of five hundred men. Illyan hadn't encountered the first five names before, but the sixth was Sergeant Bothari. Illyan verified his ID; yes, it was exactly Vorrutyer's batman, not his namesake. The case record had a treatment from five years ago, but this remoteness didn't prevent Illyan from pricking up his ears.
He stuck his finger into the row of the list. "The Sergeant is considered now sane and sound?"
"His treatment was cancelled a long time ago." The colonel frowned and answered from memory, without making inquiries to the medical files. He clearly had focused his permanent attention on Bothari due to the sergeant's unusual status. "I haven't done his checkup, but his files confirm that he is fit for combatant service. And..."
"Just a minute," Illyan interrupted him, informally holding a restrained palm up. "I need to focus."
He had the name and the exact date so this search in memory was quick; he found encrypted data of the checkup and treatment. Then he passed on to the records of Bothari's files related to the time of Vorkosigan's captaincy. He was surprised to see in the Sergeant's files the mention of assault and battery towards the captain and of the repeated detention, including the arrest on suspicion of mutiny. It was followed by the commendation for heroism during the scotching of a mutiny. Had it been the same mutiny? Illyan understood nothing. But the relations between Vorkosigan and this strange fellow hadn't been unclouded, so friendly that Bothari could call on him in a familiar way and offer a sedative pill from his own old reserve.
The parts of this puzzle didn't fit together; and the surgeon, who had previously been short with him, stared inquiringly at Illyan now, and this stare confused him. Well, he had the list of persons and names, and Zarowski couldn't give him more now.
"Let's forget about Bothari. Is there anything else related to this stuff that I need to know? The side effects or precautions?"
"The common warnings, I think," Zarowski sighed. "Vorkosigan should abstain from any alcoholic drink for at least the next day, and, for the future, not take any psychotropic medicine without consulting with me beforehand. At the table he should drink only soda water, that would blend well with his ulcer patient's image. I'll tell him this myself, though."
"Thank you, sir." Illyan saluted politely and excused himself, returning to Vorkosigan.
The situation in the Commodore's cabin hadn't changed a bit. Vorkosigan slept, breathing heavily. This picture was so calm and peaceful that Illyan suppressed an unexpected yawn. Perhaps he should go now to his cabin and follow the example of his senior officer... as regards the sound sleep, not the hard drinking, of course. But Illyan's old custom to work at night, that he owed to Ezar, prevented him from falling asleep. But he had inherited from his former job more than one habit. He should not react involuntary in that way to the fact that his senior officer was sleeping at arm's length from him...
Well, so get down to work. Let's examine the new figure (putting it more precisely, the known one).
Bothari was Vorrutyer's industrious servant, who had even waited on him at table despite the fact that other diners had lost their appetite at the sight of his remarkable face. Today's lunch had been the last case when Bothari and Vorkosigan had been at once in the same room. What did it mean? Nothing. Of course, Vorkosigan had taken nothing from Sergeant Bothari and never talked with him in the Crown Prince's presence, since Serg had made a strong rule of 'inadmissibility of fraternization across ranks'. Nevertheless, Bothari had waited on the table. Could he have secretly handed over something to Vorkosigan?
At the ordinary lunch the waiters only filled the officers' glasses and put away used plates. This time they had poured out wine from some "common" bottles, and the officers had helped themselves to salad, main course and garnish, which had been installed at the center of the table. All plates and dishes had been laid on the table in advance. Except... one wineglass. Yes, the very wineglass that Vorrutyer had shattered.
Illyan silently named himself a blind idiot and restored the picture from his memory. As the lowest by rank at the Captain's table, he had taken up a rather uncomfortable seat, facing towards the kitchen's door and the teacart. Of course, at that very moment he had looked at Vorkosigan's face only, beseeching him without words to control himself. Now he froze the picture and examined its background frame by frame. There is the waiter's green sleeve; his hand dries up the wine stain on the tablecloth and covers it with a tissue. This is another waiter, not Bothari. Meantime the Sergeant steps to the teacart and kneels down for some reason, only his shoulder is showing. The barely audible squeak and click are heard, and the Sergeant rises, holding a wineglass in his hand. There is quite a battery of clean shining glasses on the top level of the teacart, but Bothari has taken the spare one from below, hasn't he? The steps sound; Bothari's hand extends by Vorkosigan's shoulder and put the wineglass on the table. It looks just-washed; there are tiny transparent lenses of liquid on its inner surface, but the Bordeaux washes them out. And straight away Vorrutyer proposes a final toast "For our victory!", and the officers drink upright and to the dregs.
Perhaps, Illyan was downright paranoid. And Aral had taken a sedative pill without noticing the warning about precautions. And they had only swilled out the wineglass in haste before putting it in the teacart. And Bothari had been an unskillful waiter. And Ges had acted as a Good Samaritan and come to visit an ill friend.
And pigs have wings...
Bothari was mad. Bothari was a sociopath on the verge of attacking everybody. Bothari's personal file contained multiple reprimands from Vorkosigan, including the lockup arrest for open aggression towards his commanding officer. Bothari had stunned his captain in the jungle of the nameless planet they now orbited. Bothari had a sedative in his pocket. Bothari was now a dutiful instrument of the man who was obsessed by Aral.
But Vorrutyer himself was guilty of nothing, of course!