Raven's lips flattened.  "Yeah.  I can do an autopsy, in a bit, here."  When he had recovered his tone of mind, presumably.  "Find out exactly what kind of bad prep this was.  There are a number of choices.  I thought there was something odd about the viscosity of that return fluid . . ." He paused.  "Let me rephrase that.  I bloody insist on the autopsy.  I want to know exactly how I was set up for this failure.  Because I don't like being set up like this."

"Amen," growled Miles.  He slipped off his chair, jerked down his mask, and approached the table with its mute burden.  The blood pump was still keeping the skin hopefully flushed, deceptive promise.  Absently, Raven reached out and switched it off.  The silence hurt.

How was he going to explain this to Jin and Mina?  Because Miles knew that would have to be his next task.  In his rush and his arrogance, he had taken away their hope . . . no, he'd only taken away their false hope.  This ending was apparently inevitable, however and whenever it was arrived at, now or later, by his hand or another's.  The reflection didn't console him much.

I will get you justice . . . no.  He wasn't in a position to make any such pledges to them.  And I will try sounded too weak, mere preamble to another adult put-off.  But guilt fueled his rage against his—their—unknown enemy as nothing else could.  How odd, how suspect.  How futile.

A sharp rap fell on the operating room door.  Roic, awake again?  He wasn't going to greet the news of their fool's errand with any joy, either.  Miles stretched his back, grabbed his cane, walked to the door, and glanced through the narrow glass.  And was immediately glad he hadn't just yelled, Come in, Roic!  Because standing outside was Consul Vorlynkin, looking harried, with Jin and Mina in tow, one tugging on each arm.

Miles slipped through the door and stood with his back pressed to it.  "What are you doing here?  You were supposed to wait at the consulate till I called."  As if he couldn't tell, by the way Vorlynkin was being pulled about.  He supposed it was a good thing the children seemed to have lost all fear of the man, but it would be better if he hadn't turned to putty in their hands.  Yeah, like I should talk.

"They insisted," Vorlynkin explained, unnecessarily.  "I told them she wouldn't be awake till tomorrow—you told them how unappetizing you looked when you came out of cryo—but they still insisted.  Even if they could only see her through the glass.  I don't think they slept all night.  Woke me up three times . . .  I thought maybe if they could just see, they'd settle down.  Take naps later, something."  Vorlynkin's voice slowed as he took in Miles's grim stance.  So he only mouthed, and did not voice, the words What's wrong?