Fic: It's a long way to Escobar (18/20)
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 Eighteen,
where Aral is almost hooked but Illyan finds the emergency exit for him
***
The muffled buzz from the duty officer's comconsole informed him that the time reckoning for the next examinee begun. Vorkosigan's sharp exhalation that Illyan heard from the com confirmed that he wasn't wrong in his counts and now it was Aral's turn. From this moment and during the next half of the hour Illyan would have to hear every hiss, comment or swear that Vorkosigan would be forced to by the exercises. Illyan could decipher these sounds like a rebus; there were heavy boots stamping on the desk, the click of facial plate closing shut, the brief rapid speech that marked the check of readouts... Illyan remembered his own actions a few hours ago and decided that at this moment Aral was entering - rushing! - into the lock chamber. Therefore Illyan had six or seven minutes free while the lock's full cycle completed.
Illyan turned his attention to Vorrutyer and the Prince. They were debating heatedly about some matter; Ges talked in a low voice, Serg's remarks were shrill and loud. "... he fenced well at show jumping, blind drunk!" Serg proved actively. "I said he couldn't!" Ges snubbed him, "Hush your tone, please."
Illyan didn't like this talk; frankly speaking, at this moment he would like nothing concerned with this couple. Had they arrived here to see Aral's fiasco? Did they think that he was drunk to such an extent that he was on his last legs? You'll be unpleasantly surprised, my lords...
Illyan realized that he was deeply meditating only at the moment when the muted curse from the earbug made him start. What is it? No, it was stupid to be alarmed. Vorkosigan could just have stumbled over, for example, when he had left the gravity-field of the ship, or, even more prosaically, his ear itched suddenly and awfully. Therefore Illyan bit his tongue and only kept to listening attentively to the background sounds from the com.
Vice Admiral Vorrutyer turned to the duty officer at the very moment when they heard the swearing. "Commander, key up the picture from the outer vid-pickup to my display," he demanded impatiently, and added crossly, when a tiny delay followed, "Of the exercise, of course!"
Vorrutyer evidently wasn't a master in the operating of a command channel but he handled it quite easily, being experienced. Although he was now the[omit] mostly an "Admiral for show", his military career in his youth had surely included field service; moreover, Vorrutyer hadn't neglected combat simulators lately when he had been in the Headquarters. Illyan reminded himself that the image of a hysterical depraved frill was only one of Ges’s comfortable masks, and it would be dangerous to underestimate him.
The flashing images from various cameras stopped on the view of the bulky shape on the ship's outer skin and the little scarlet pulsating beacon at a distance of a hundred meters from it. Illyan was surprised that the vacuum suite looked from the outside so clumsy and cumbersome. Looked only? The man moved along the hull not with an even stride, rolling his foot from heel to toe, as they all were taught. He... toddled; he was careening like a drunk and twitching his leg in a funny manner as if he groped his way. Illyan frantically glanced over the training vid in his memory and made sure that the scene was quite different; the man, moving in this way, could hardly confine himself to the standard time.
"What's that?" Vorrutyer demanded in disgust. He keyed up the conference circuit. "Tech bay, who is tumbling outside now?"
Doesn't you really know? Illyan thought darkly.
The engineering lieutenant's voice confirmed immediately, "Number Four is out." He paused, re-checking. "Commodore Vorkosigan".
"The Commodore?" Vorrutyer wondered specially. "Is he drunk or something?"
"Number Four-Eight, reply," the instructor called alarmingly. "What's happening?"
Aral's voice sounded from the loud speaker, echoing in Illyan's earbug, "Four-Eight on line. The situation is under control."
It was strange that the voice in the common line sounded deep and slow making an illusion of difficulty of speech but Illyan heard in his earbug that its inflexion and speed were normal. Did the microphone of the transmitting device malfunction? If it was so, could some other bugs be revealed shortly after? The alarm that chimed in Illyan's mind hadn't just turned on but rang loudly; he had a good temptation to call out 'Sabotage!'
He had to figure out what had happened. Illyan who had been mechanically rolling a light pen on the tabletop let the thing fall under the console, supposedly by accident. He smiled apologetically and ducked down to reach the pen. When he was under the console he whispered hastily in the comlink, "What's up?"
The pause of a second followed as Vorkosigan turned out the common conference; then he answered laconically, "The magnet of the left sole is failing. Irregularly. What is my lag?"
"Thirty-eight seconds," Illyan read the figures of the virtual timer that flowed before his eyes.
Aral clicked his tongue with annoyance but didn't waste priceless seconds with comments. "I'm going to start my engines right after the beacon, to use the impulse," he explained. "Out."
When Illyan scrambled out from under the console he glanced briefly aside to the Prince and his friend; no, they were still looking to the opposite side and didn't turned out towards him but regarded the vid image as if it would be the best show of the year and exchanged spiteful remarks about drunkards in the fleet. Illyan decided to turn a firmly deaf ear to these words.
Was this an accidental malfunction? In this matter Illyan didn't believe in accidents, he considered it more reasonable to be a paranoid and see their enemies’ machination in every disaster. It was incomprehensible yet how Vorrutyer had managed to have a hand in Aral's space-suit failure but this was of no importance in Illyan's conclusions. There was the more urgent question about Ges's primary purpose. Had he wanted the first time just to discredit Aral for his false drunkenness or to hold him away from the cabin? Illyan didn’t know it. He waited.
On the display the man in the vacuum suit had reached at last the little beacon with jerking moves. The flasher changed its light from bright red to blue; this meant that Vorkosigan hadn't missed the contact plate.
Their previous exchange of remarks was enough for Illyan to understand Aral's troubles and his intentions. The magnetic soles provided the space suit's adhesion with the ship's hull. The electric magnet turned on when one pushed on his heel and turned off when one shifted the body's weight onto the toe so that people usually moved like a sportsman in a foot-race. But if the magnetic control was defective the pressure on a heel only returned the additional impulse to the body. Nobody could figure out on site what defect in the electronics was its cause; the suit evidently would require repairing later. As a result, it was hard for Aral not just to walk but to push himself off in the jump. He would have to use the maneuvering jet engines behind his shoulders and it would have be done very neatly. At the first, it would be not allowed to scorch the ship's board with plasma jet; at the second, Aral would have to aim the nozzle perfectly in order to fly away from the ship and not to be dragged along its board. Illyan hoped that Vorkosigan should handle his equipment well as he was very experienced; he even had the chance to make up his lag for the distance of half of kilometer if he should risk starting and braking abruptly.
Illyan was waiting for the brisk start, but he didn't expect to hear the shout accompanied with the metallic clash. This sound burst in his earbug; Illyan slapped his ear as if he was stung. "Aral?" he breathed. His voice was low but nobody would hear him even if Illyan screamed at the top of his voice. The cacophony set in the Tac room; the alarm signal on the comconsole squeaked, the people from the Engineering bay asked via intercom what it was the outer had hit, the instructor shrieked out, 'Four-Eight, report!'. But Vorrutyer's dramatic cry overrode all the noise; he sprang to his feet and exclaimed, "Whatever does this alcoholic venture upon?!"
Illyan nearly darted off, towards the working comconsole, in order to look at the display past the duty officer's shoulder. He narrowed his eyes instead and looked at it from the distance seeking out the tiniest explanation of what had happened. The fluorescent stripes and sparkling mirror patches on the space suit that hovered by the beacon were easily discernible, but the figure didn't move and Illyan didn't see any jet engines' flash. Was Aral out? No, he shifted and grasped with difficulty the beacon's prop that was slightly crooked, by the way. During the next second Illyan had time to curse silently himself, their common plan, Vorrutyer, Aral's presumption, the stupid exercises and the entire space navy.
Then Vorkosigan's voice sounded from the loud speaker, still strangely low, "Four-Eight calls the ship. I've a technical failure and ask to stop the count. Evacuation isn't required; I'll cope by my own strength."
"You see," Vorrutyer exclaimed triumphantly, turning towards the officers, "He's not only criminally drunk but lies in an attempt to conceal it. An awkward lie, isn't it? Nobody else had the same 'technical failures'," he emphasized this word. "By the way, was he examined before his exiting outside? Did they rely upon," he grinned contemptuously, "Vorkosigan's notorious word?"
Illyan was stunned, blushing for shame and anger at the same time. Some security officer he was! Why had he let his ward go into the vacuum without checking his suit on his own? He would have had to stop the exercises and conduct a diagnostic... but nobody would have allowed him to disorder the work of the Engineering Bay under the pretext of supposedly untested equipment. For what reason? Is Vorkosigan a VIP who requires the special treatment? Oh, really, you doubt the Commander-in-Chief's good intention... Only this assumption would have be enough that the flight Chief engineer would have eaten him alive, without salt and butter.
What was left for him to do now?
"Well," the Vice Admiral stated with satisfaction. "I had to note with regret that we have a state of emergency. What are you going to do with this," he nodded toward the display, "... victim? Dispatch a rescue team? Who knows, he could make a row. Send a small shuttle; let them hook him on the tractor beam, and he won't resist." Vorrutyer grinned.
"Vorkosigan reported that evacuation wasn't required," the duty officer began, his palm covering the microphone.
Vorrutyer immediately snapped at him, "I don't care what nonsense he said. Carry out the order!"
"I'm finding out now from the engineers what way is the most quick, sir," the duty officer promised hastily.
"Quick?" Ges snorted and added in a falsely soft voice, "You should have hurried before. The exercises are already upset, the damage is done." He rose and inclined to Serg who sat still silent. "Wouldn't Your Highness like to call a meeting concerned this incident?"
"Yes," the Prince accepted cheerfully and rose too. "Immediately. Summon to the briefing room Vorhalas, Zarowski and someone from Engineering. Let them provide an explanation of this scandal. Bring Vorkosigan here, as soon he's arrived, whatever his condition should be."
They directed their steps to the door. Illyan repeated without delay his trick with a dropped light pen; the hiss of closing door sounded just at the moment when he scrambled up. They had left. The others people in the Tac room either were busy or considered normal the presence of an ImpSec officer here. Who is Vorrutyer's man among them? Didn't matter. If he would report his patron about Illyan, it would be later. Now Simon keyed up his wrist com hastily.
"Aral?" he called in low tones, "Is any harm done to you?"
"I'm safe and sound," Vorkosigan answered, slightly irritated. Illyan didn't blame him; if he was Aral, he would swear now, droningly and steadily. "But the space suit is out of order. The traction system works unpredictably; I 'm not only able to push myself correctly with one leg. The engines are misbalanced, their exhausts are mistimed or directed where only devil knows; the moment I attempt to switch them on I begin to twirl round. And I suspect, that the malfunctions extend further. What do you know? Report."
"Most likely, your suit was sabotaged. Vorrutyer was waiting for this incident, to all appearances. He made a row immediately, shouted about drunkenness and ordered the dispatch of an evacuation crew to capture you. They will be on site in a dozen minutes."
"What a disgrace," Aral noted grimly. "And I'm not able to reach Lock Three in the meantime by my own strength."
"Really," Illyan accepted. It would be unpleasant to be hooked with a gravity beam like a drowned man from the[a] stream and handed over to Vorrutyer's escort team; the chief of the Prince's Security had sent for a few bulky fellows for putting down a wild Vorkosigan, maybe with a stun-net. They had to wait for him by Lock Three... Wait. There were other locks besides Number Three, indeed.
"What if you just head to the nearest lock? You have dropped out of the race, anyway."
"I had this idea already," Aral admitted, "I'm unable to go a long distance now, but the exit Number Eight is at a stone's throw. Uselessly; it's so near and yet so far, because it is locked."
"Are you sure?" The mad hope flashed at a split second.
"I can test it." Aral's voice sounded weary. "But warily. When I lose hold of the prop, I'll risk drifting away but won't dare to turn off the engines."
Two minutes of indistinct sounds as a rustling of fabric and heavy breath was concluded with the disappointed remark, "Locked. I have the worst luck now, Simon."
"Doesn't the rack-gear turn? Is it blocked from inside?" Illyan asked.
Aral answered with a joyless snicker, "There is just a simple code lock."
Yes, this procedure was standard. The room behind Lock Eight was now assigned for storage, not a shuttle hangar; therefore the exit had to be locked shut. Any unauthorized people wouldn't get here from outside (just as an enemy boarding team during battle); in case of need the technicians could receive the code from the chief engineer. Now the chief engineer being rebuked by Vorrutyer, so Illyan couldn't ask him for this valuable information right now, as a personal favor. Moreover, it would be hard to convince him quickly that drunk (as everybody thought) Vorkosigan would be careful and his actions wouldn't threaten the hold's impermeability.
The time pressed, and they hadn't any chance to force a lock from outside.
Is it necessary to force it?
Illyan was stunned struck with a sudden idea. He extracted from his perfect memory a picture of ten days' prescription. Here he enters the Nav and Com, says hello, shakes hands, smiles... meantime the night duty officer, from the right of him, reloads data to the reserve comconsole for the next shift. The person on operative duty had received the highest access level, hadn't he? It remained to Illyan only to enlarge the blurry image, focus to officer's fingers, open the log-in window on his own comconsole and carefully tape all symbols of the spied password, one after another. If only they hadn't changed it since then...
They hadn't. The inner database opened hospitably before his eyes; the rest was the matter of ordinary ImpSec skills. The was it, the code to the outer hatch of the Lock Eight; six numbers, aka the emergency exit from the enemy's trap.
"Aral," Illyan said, his throat suddenly dry. He swallowed. "I'm going to dictate numbers for you. Please, don't miss when you tap them..."
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 Eighteen,
where Aral is almost hooked but Illyan finds the emergency exit for him
***
The muffled buzz from the duty officer's comconsole informed him that the time reckoning for the next examinee begun. Vorkosigan's sharp exhalation that Illyan heard from the com confirmed that he wasn't wrong in his counts and now it was Aral's turn. From this moment and during the next half of the hour Illyan would have to hear every hiss, comment or swear that Vorkosigan would be forced to by the exercises. Illyan could decipher these sounds like a rebus; there were heavy boots stamping on the desk, the click of facial plate closing shut, the brief rapid speech that marked the check of readouts... Illyan remembered his own actions a few hours ago and decided that at this moment Aral was entering - rushing! - into the lock chamber. Therefore Illyan had six or seven minutes free while the lock's full cycle completed.
Illyan turned his attention to Vorrutyer and the Prince. They were debating heatedly about some matter; Ges talked in a low voice, Serg's remarks were shrill and loud. "... he fenced well at show jumping, blind drunk!" Serg proved actively. "I said he couldn't!" Ges snubbed him, "Hush your tone, please."
Illyan didn't like this talk; frankly speaking, at this moment he would like nothing concerned with this couple. Had they arrived here to see Aral's fiasco? Did they think that he was drunk to such an extent that he was on his last legs? You'll be unpleasantly surprised, my lords...
Illyan realized that he was deeply meditating only at the moment when the muted curse from the earbug made him start. What is it? No, it was stupid to be alarmed. Vorkosigan could just have stumbled over, for example, when he had left the gravity-field of the ship, or, even more prosaically, his ear itched suddenly and awfully. Therefore Illyan bit his tongue and only kept to listening attentively to the background sounds from the com.
Vice Admiral Vorrutyer turned to the duty officer at the very moment when they heard the swearing. "Commander, key up the picture from the outer vid-pickup to my display," he demanded impatiently, and added crossly, when a tiny delay followed, "Of the exercise, of course!"
Vorrutyer evidently wasn't a master in the operating of a command channel but he handled it quite easily, being experienced. Although he was now the[omit] mostly an "Admiral for show", his military career in his youth had surely included field service; moreover, Vorrutyer hadn't neglected combat simulators lately when he had been in the Headquarters. Illyan reminded himself that the image of a hysterical depraved frill was only one of Ges’s comfortable masks, and it would be dangerous to underestimate him.
The flashing images from various cameras stopped on the view of the bulky shape on the ship's outer skin and the little scarlet pulsating beacon at a distance of a hundred meters from it. Illyan was surprised that the vacuum suite looked from the outside so clumsy and cumbersome. Looked only? The man moved along the hull not with an even stride, rolling his foot from heel to toe, as they all were taught. He... toddled; he was careening like a drunk and twitching his leg in a funny manner as if he groped his way. Illyan frantically glanced over the training vid in his memory and made sure that the scene was quite different; the man, moving in this way, could hardly confine himself to the standard time.
"What's that?" Vorrutyer demanded in disgust. He keyed up the conference circuit. "Tech bay, who is tumbling outside now?"
Doesn't you really know? Illyan thought darkly.
The engineering lieutenant's voice confirmed immediately, "Number Four is out." He paused, re-checking. "Commodore Vorkosigan".
"The Commodore?" Vorrutyer wondered specially. "Is he drunk or something?"
"Number Four-Eight, reply," the instructor called alarmingly. "What's happening?"
Aral's voice sounded from the loud speaker, echoing in Illyan's earbug, "Four-Eight on line. The situation is under control."
It was strange that the voice in the common line sounded deep and slow making an illusion of difficulty of speech but Illyan heard in his earbug that its inflexion and speed were normal. Did the microphone of the transmitting device malfunction? If it was so, could some other bugs be revealed shortly after? The alarm that chimed in Illyan's mind hadn't just turned on but rang loudly; he had a good temptation to call out 'Sabotage!'
He had to figure out what had happened. Illyan who had been mechanically rolling a light pen on the tabletop let the thing fall under the console, supposedly by accident. He smiled apologetically and ducked down to reach the pen. When he was under the console he whispered hastily in the comlink, "What's up?"
The pause of a second followed as Vorkosigan turned out the common conference; then he answered laconically, "The magnet of the left sole is failing. Irregularly. What is my lag?"
"Thirty-eight seconds," Illyan read the figures of the virtual timer that flowed before his eyes.
Aral clicked his tongue with annoyance but didn't waste priceless seconds with comments. "I'm going to start my engines right after the beacon, to use the impulse," he explained. "Out."
When Illyan scrambled out from under the console he glanced briefly aside to the Prince and his friend; no, they were still looking to the opposite side and didn't turned out towards him but regarded the vid image as if it would be the best show of the year and exchanged spiteful remarks about drunkards in the fleet. Illyan decided to turn a firmly deaf ear to these words.
Was this an accidental malfunction? In this matter Illyan didn't believe in accidents, he considered it more reasonable to be a paranoid and see their enemies’ machination in every disaster. It was incomprehensible yet how Vorrutyer had managed to have a hand in Aral's space-suit failure but this was of no importance in Illyan's conclusions. There was the more urgent question about Ges's primary purpose. Had he wanted the first time just to discredit Aral for his false drunkenness or to hold him away from the cabin? Illyan didn’t know it. He waited.
On the display the man in the vacuum suit had reached at last the little beacon with jerking moves. The flasher changed its light from bright red to blue; this meant that Vorkosigan hadn't missed the contact plate.
Their previous exchange of remarks was enough for Illyan to understand Aral's troubles and his intentions. The magnetic soles provided the space suit's adhesion with the ship's hull. The electric magnet turned on when one pushed on his heel and turned off when one shifted the body's weight onto the toe so that people usually moved like a sportsman in a foot-race. But if the magnetic control was defective the pressure on a heel only returned the additional impulse to the body. Nobody could figure out on site what defect in the electronics was its cause; the suit evidently would require repairing later. As a result, it was hard for Aral not just to walk but to push himself off in the jump. He would have to use the maneuvering jet engines behind his shoulders and it would have be done very neatly. At the first, it would be not allowed to scorch the ship's board with plasma jet; at the second, Aral would have to aim the nozzle perfectly in order to fly away from the ship and not to be dragged along its board. Illyan hoped that Vorkosigan should handle his equipment well as he was very experienced; he even had the chance to make up his lag for the distance of half of kilometer if he should risk starting and braking abruptly.
Illyan was waiting for the brisk start, but he didn't expect to hear the shout accompanied with the metallic clash. This sound burst in his earbug; Illyan slapped his ear as if he was stung. "Aral?" he breathed. His voice was low but nobody would hear him even if Illyan screamed at the top of his voice. The cacophony set in the Tac room; the alarm signal on the comconsole squeaked, the people from the Engineering bay asked via intercom what it was the outer had hit, the instructor shrieked out, 'Four-Eight, report!'. But Vorrutyer's dramatic cry overrode all the noise; he sprang to his feet and exclaimed, "Whatever does this alcoholic venture upon?!"
Illyan nearly darted off, towards the working comconsole, in order to look at the display past the duty officer's shoulder. He narrowed his eyes instead and looked at it from the distance seeking out the tiniest explanation of what had happened. The fluorescent stripes and sparkling mirror patches on the space suit that hovered by the beacon were easily discernible, but the figure didn't move and Illyan didn't see any jet engines' flash. Was Aral out? No, he shifted and grasped with difficulty the beacon's prop that was slightly crooked, by the way. During the next second Illyan had time to curse silently himself, their common plan, Vorrutyer, Aral's presumption, the stupid exercises and the entire space navy.
Then Vorkosigan's voice sounded from the loud speaker, still strangely low, "Four-Eight calls the ship. I've a technical failure and ask to stop the count. Evacuation isn't required; I'll cope by my own strength."
"You see," Vorrutyer exclaimed triumphantly, turning towards the officers, "He's not only criminally drunk but lies in an attempt to conceal it. An awkward lie, isn't it? Nobody else had the same 'technical failures'," he emphasized this word. "By the way, was he examined before his exiting outside? Did they rely upon," he grinned contemptuously, "Vorkosigan's notorious word?"
Illyan was stunned, blushing for shame and anger at the same time. Some security officer he was! Why had he let his ward go into the vacuum without checking his suit on his own? He would have had to stop the exercises and conduct a diagnostic... but nobody would have allowed him to disorder the work of the Engineering Bay under the pretext of supposedly untested equipment. For what reason? Is Vorkosigan a VIP who requires the special treatment? Oh, really, you doubt the Commander-in-Chief's good intention... Only this assumption would have be enough that the flight Chief engineer would have eaten him alive, without salt and butter.
What was left for him to do now?
"Well," the Vice Admiral stated with satisfaction. "I had to note with regret that we have a state of emergency. What are you going to do with this," he nodded toward the display, "... victim? Dispatch a rescue team? Who knows, he could make a row. Send a small shuttle; let them hook him on the tractor beam, and he won't resist." Vorrutyer grinned.
"Vorkosigan reported that evacuation wasn't required," the duty officer began, his palm covering the microphone.
Vorrutyer immediately snapped at him, "I don't care what nonsense he said. Carry out the order!"
"I'm finding out now from the engineers what way is the most quick, sir," the duty officer promised hastily.
"Quick?" Ges snorted and added in a falsely soft voice, "You should have hurried before. The exercises are already upset, the damage is done." He rose and inclined to Serg who sat still silent. "Wouldn't Your Highness like to call a meeting concerned this incident?"
"Yes," the Prince accepted cheerfully and rose too. "Immediately. Summon to the briefing room Vorhalas, Zarowski and someone from Engineering. Let them provide an explanation of this scandal. Bring Vorkosigan here, as soon he's arrived, whatever his condition should be."
They directed their steps to the door. Illyan repeated without delay his trick with a dropped light pen; the hiss of closing door sounded just at the moment when he scrambled up. They had left. The others people in the Tac room either were busy or considered normal the presence of an ImpSec officer here. Who is Vorrutyer's man among them? Didn't matter. If he would report his patron about Illyan, it would be later. Now Simon keyed up his wrist com hastily.
"Aral?" he called in low tones, "Is any harm done to you?"
"I'm safe and sound," Vorkosigan answered, slightly irritated. Illyan didn't blame him; if he was Aral, he would swear now, droningly and steadily. "But the space suit is out of order. The traction system works unpredictably; I 'm not only able to push myself correctly with one leg. The engines are misbalanced, their exhausts are mistimed or directed where only devil knows; the moment I attempt to switch them on I begin to twirl round. And I suspect, that the malfunctions extend further. What do you know? Report."
"Most likely, your suit was sabotaged. Vorrutyer was waiting for this incident, to all appearances. He made a row immediately, shouted about drunkenness and ordered the dispatch of an evacuation crew to capture you. They will be on site in a dozen minutes."
"What a disgrace," Aral noted grimly. "And I'm not able to reach Lock Three in the meantime by my own strength."
"Really," Illyan accepted. It would be unpleasant to be hooked with a gravity beam like a drowned man from the[a] stream and handed over to Vorrutyer's escort team; the chief of the Prince's Security had sent for a few bulky fellows for putting down a wild Vorkosigan, maybe with a stun-net. They had to wait for him by Lock Three... Wait. There were other locks besides Number Three, indeed.
"What if you just head to the nearest lock? You have dropped out of the race, anyway."
"I had this idea already," Aral admitted, "I'm unable to go a long distance now, but the exit Number Eight is at a stone's throw. Uselessly; it's so near and yet so far, because it is locked."
"Are you sure?" The mad hope flashed at a split second.
"I can test it." Aral's voice sounded weary. "But warily. When I lose hold of the prop, I'll risk drifting away but won't dare to turn off the engines."
Two minutes of indistinct sounds as a rustling of fabric and heavy breath was concluded with the disappointed remark, "Locked. I have the worst luck now, Simon."
"Doesn't the rack-gear turn? Is it blocked from inside?" Illyan asked.
Aral answered with a joyless snicker, "There is just a simple code lock."
Yes, this procedure was standard. The room behind Lock Eight was now assigned for storage, not a shuttle hangar; therefore the exit had to be locked shut. Any unauthorized people wouldn't get here from outside (just as an enemy boarding team during battle); in case of need the technicians could receive the code from the chief engineer. Now the chief engineer being rebuked by Vorrutyer, so Illyan couldn't ask him for this valuable information right now, as a personal favor. Moreover, it would be hard to convince him quickly that drunk (as everybody thought) Vorkosigan would be careful and his actions wouldn't threaten the hold's impermeability.
The time pressed, and they hadn't any chance to force a lock from outside.
Is it necessary to force it?
Illyan was stunned struck with a sudden idea. He extracted from his perfect memory a picture of ten days' prescription. Here he enters the Nav and Com, says hello, shakes hands, smiles... meantime the night duty officer, from the right of him, reloads data to the reserve comconsole for the next shift. The person on operative duty had received the highest access level, hadn't he? It remained to Illyan only to enlarge the blurry image, focus to officer's fingers, open the log-in window on his own comconsole and carefully tape all symbols of the spied password, one after another. If only they hadn't changed it since then...
They hadn't. The inner database opened hospitably before his eyes; the rest was the matter of ordinary ImpSec skills. The was it, the code to the outer hatch of the Lock Eight; six numbers, aka the emergency exit from the enemy's trap.
"Aral," Illyan said, his throat suddenly dry. He swallowed. "I'm going to dictate numbers for you. Please, don't miss when you tap them..."