The hull was maybe five meters long and half that wide, and a stretched plastic cover protected a large open cockpit.  The fastenings parted reluctantly, and Roic dragged the cover aside and climbed in.  Raven followed in curiosity.

Roic felt his way to the controls, just behind a windshield, and opened what proved—yes!—to be a small vid plate cover.  Now, if this comlink was independently powered, as it bloody well should be—Roic's fumbling fingers found the on-switch at last, and green and amber lights threw back the pools of darkness.

"Hey!" said Raven, in a hearteningly impressed tone—most Duronas daunted Roic.  "Did you know that would be there?"

"I had a guess.  If this place rented out boats to its customers, it would've had to keep something to go rescue them in.  Comlink is a pretty standard built-in for pleasure boats this size, along with the depth finder and nav links and so on."

The emergency channel was easy to find.  Within minutes, Roic had talked his way back through the system to the Northbridge police.  His years as a street guard gave him a good idea of just what to say to smoothly reach the folks with clout, and the boat's navigation aid provided a precise location.  He reported, briefly, his experiences and Raven's to the startled but pleased Northbridge detective officer in charge of the—by now highly publicized, Roic sensed in his tone—kidnapping case.  To Roic's intense worry, it seemed no one had found Lord Vorkosigan yet.  As the Northbridge police scrambled, Roic closed the link and leaned back.

"Now what?" asked Raven.

"Now we wait."

"For rescue?  Do you think we ought to do something for the others?"

"Lying low's better.  No point in stirring up anything if our captors aren't going to miss us for a while yet.  Let the Kibou fellows do their job, and hope they get here first."  Roic recalled some of m'lord's cautionary lectures on local liability, a concern that m'lord himself seemed to take to heart only intermittently.

Speaking of locals . . .  Roic leaned forward again and searched out the number of the Barrayaran consulate in Northbridge.  Unfortunately, the public net only supplied the public number, not the secured emergency link coded on his wristcom, presumably discarded back in the city by his captors for well-founded fear of tracers.  A polite recorded voice told him to call back during office hours, or leave a message.  The muted background music was a popular Barrayaran military march that gave Roic a twinge of homesickness.  He was halfway through recording a succinct report on his current situation when, to his relief, he was interrupted by a live human.