Or even anything about him.  You bastards are on the top of Imperial Lord Auditor Miles Vorkosigan's very own shit list now, you bet.   But under what name?  Only five days on this benighted world, and already total strangers are trying to kill me.  Sadly, it wasn't even a record.  He wished he knew who they'd been.  He wished he were back home in the Barrayaran Empire, where the dread title of Imperial Auditor actually meant something to people.  I wish those wretched angels would stop shrieking at me.

"Flights of angels," he muttered in experimental incantation, "sing me to my rest."

The angels declined to form up into a ball like a will-o'-the-wisp and lead him onward out of this place.  So much for his dim hope that his subconscious had been keeping track of his direction while the rest of his mind was out, and would now produce some neat inspiration in dramatic form.  Onward.  One foot in front of the other, wasn't that the grownup way of solving problems?  Surely he ought to be a grownup at his age.

He wondered if he was going in circles.

His trailing hand wavered through black air across a narrow cross-corridor, made for access to the banks' supporting machinery, which he ignored.  Later, another.  He'd been suckered into exploring down too many of those already, which was part of how he'd got so hideously turned around.  Go straight or, if his corridor dead-ended, right, as much as possible, that was his new rule.

But then his bumping fingers crossed something that was not a bank of cryo-drawers, and he stopped abruptly.  He felt around without turning, because turning, he'd discovered, destroyed what little orientation he still possessed.  Yes, a door!  If only it wasn't another utility closet.  If only it was unlocked, for a change.

Unlocked, yes!  Miles hissed through his teeth and pulled.  Hinges creaked with corrosion.  It seemed to weigh a ton, but the bloody thing moved!  He stuck an experimental foot through the gap and felt around.  A floor, not a drop—if his senses weren't lying, again.  He had nothing with which to prop open the door; he hoped he might find it again if this proved another dead end.  Carefully, he knelt on all fours and eased through, feeling in front of him.

Not another closet.  Stairs, emergency stairs!  He seemed to be on a landing in front of the door.  To his right, steps went up, cool and gritty under his sore hand.  To his left, down.  Which way?  He had to run out of up sooner, surely.  It was probably a delusion, if a powerful one, that he might go down forever.  This maze could not descend to the planet's magma, after all.  The heat would thaw the dead.