Cryoburn - Lois McMaster Bujold [47]
Ron Wing in person proved middle-aged and trim in formal business attire: undercoat, wide-sleeved outer coat with just a hint of winged shoulders, and baggy trousers in subtle muted blues, complete right down to the split-toe socks and sandals. Style, fabric and cut all signaled status, money, and mode as surely as a Barrayaran Vor male's quasi-military tunic, trousers, and half-boots. The calculated dress was backed up by shrewd eyes and a sober attention.
At Wing's elbow hovered the fellow who had delicately conveyed WhiteChrys's bribe to the Lord Auditor at the party the night before the terrorists/activists/idiotists had struck, so rudely interrupting their promising exchange. Hideyuki Storrs bore the title of executive vice president for development. He wore a slimmer version of his boss's garb, much like Vorlynkin's studiously local dress, tradition modified by utility; Miles had pegged him as a high-ranking minion, but not quite inner circle.
The development department plainly wanted to take up where they'd left off, and Miles was reminded not to let himself be unruffled too soon. No point in wasting a free edge. Half of Miles's maneuvering yesterday had been to climb the chain of command up to One Who Knows. As Aida passed the party on to Storrs, who made the formal introductions to Wing, Miles thought with satisfaction, Target acquired. Locked on. By Wing's smile, Miles wondered if his opposite was thinking something similar.
I am more important to you than I ought to be. Why?
"I'm so pleased," said Wing, "that you have allowed us to make up for some of the inconveniences you have lately suffered, Lord Vorkosigan."
Miles made an it's-not-your-fault wave of his free hand, undercut by a thin grimace, and returned, "We can only be grateful that no one was seriously injured or killed in the whole escapade."
"Truly," agreed Wing. "In exchange, this does allow us to give you a much more detailed look at our facility than the general tour would have."
"Some exchange does seem due, yes."
"Would you care for some refreshments? Tea? Or shall we follow galactic custom and begin right away?"
"I'd prefer to jump straight in, actually. My time here is not unlimited."
"Right this way, then . . ."
The whole party shuffled off after Wing at Miles's cane-pace, not altogether feigned. Between his underground ordeal and the usual after-effects of the damned seizures, his aches and pains were catching up with him. Aida stuck to his side, as if ready to catch him should he fall over. The prettiest public parts of the HQ building were quickly displayed, then they were wafted by float cart over to another building where actual intake of patrons occurred. Both the front lobby and the back loading docks seemed busy.
"Our patrons come from two sources," Wing explained, leading them down the medically-scented corridors. "Some, who've suffered sudden and unexpected metabolic shut-downs, are actually processed by the hospitals, and then transferred to us for long-term storage. Others, who choose a less chancy mode, come in to our clinics and have us do the processing on-site."
"Wait, they come in alive?" asked Roic.
"The healthier you are when frozen, the better your chances of a healthy revival," said Storrs.
"That's quite true," murmured Raven.
Roic's brows drew down, and he shot a glance at Miles, who could only say, "Alas, yes."
"Would you care for a closer look at the technical processes?" said Wing. "That section isn't normally on the public tours, of course. We have some twenty or so freezings scheduled for today. The transfers are of course usually unscheduled."
Miles, who had once endured the whole process far too intimately, if not consciously, waved aside the macabre treat; Roic looked relieved. Vorlynkin bore it all with a wooden expression. Raven, at Miles's thumbs-up behind his back, took the suggestion and went off with Storrs. Miles was glad to exit the processing