Skinny's head jerked up; his good eye lit.  "We're the New Hope Legacy Liberators.  Because this generation"—he thumped his fist on his chest—"is finally doing what it takes to stand up to the power-grubbing corps.  They've grown so fat and corrupt, there's no choice left but to burn the whole rotten structure to the ground and start over.  We're standing up to bite the dead hand of the past that grinds us into the dust!"

Roic squinted in dismay as Skinny, impassioned if garbled, elaborated on this theme.  The N.H.L.L. appeared to be some sort of local political action group, who, grown frustrated at their inability to win verbal arguments—if this was a sample, Roic could see why—were trying to up the ante with physical demonstrations.  Bits and pieces from more considered critiques of local affairs that Roic had overheard at the conference bobbed by in the torrent of complaint, but the gist of harangue seemed to be that Skinny and his fellows were busted and down on their luck, and they figured that if only dead people didn't persist in owning everything in sight, there would be more left for the living.  The corps and the corpses seemed muddled together in Skinny's head.  Roic refrained from pointing out that actually, the wealth of Kibou-daini was being managed by live people in the name of the dead ones, and even if those were replaced by different live people, it seemed improbable that anyone would choose the N.H.L.L. for the task.

"Burn the dead!" Skinny finished, in much the tone that one might say Amen at the end of a rote prayer.

Burn, bury, freeze, Roic didn't see much to choose, except for the loss of some recycled organics.  "But what's that got t'do with us?" said Roic plaintively.  "We don't vote here.  We're leaving next week.  Are you after ransom?"

Skinny made a gesture of proud denial.  "No!  But we're determined that the Nexus will know of the injustice and suffering and theft on Kibou!  No one—not you galactics, not the complacent old salary-folk, fat sheep dreaming only of their own meat lockers, not our own oppressed generation planet-wide—will remain in ignorance after this, no matter how they shut their eyes and ears!"

"Ah," said Roic.  "Publicity stunt, huh?"  Roic would have preferred ransom, actually.  M'lord could have arranged it in a heartbeat, as soon as he was allowed to contact the Barrayaran consul here, and doubtless some sneaky way of recovering the money afterward, too.  And yet, Roic had never heard of a political fringe group that wasn't strapped for cash.  "It could be ransom," he essayed cautiously.  "Or even reward, depending . . ."