Illyan averted his glance from Mark. "I shall seek Countess Vorkosigan's advice, then. Anything else?"

"The Peregrine and the Ariel—"

"Must remain, for the moment, in Komarr orbit and communications quarantine. My apologies to your troops, but they'll have to tough it out."

"You'll cover the costs for this mess?"

Illyan grimaced. "Alas, yes."

"And . . . and look hard for Miles!"

"Oh, yes," he breathed.

"Then I'll go." Her voice was faint, her face pale.

"Thank you," said Illyan quietly. "My fast courier will be at your disposal as quickly as you can make ready to depart." His eye fell reluctantly on Mark. He had been avoiding looking at Mark for the whole last half of this interview. "How many personal guards do you wish?" he asked Bothari-Jesek. "I'll make it clear to them that they are under your command till they see you safe to the Count."

"I don't want any, but I suppose I have to sleep sometime. Two," Bothari-Jesek decided.

And so he was officially made a prisoner of the Barrayaran Imperial government, Mark thought. The end of the line.

Bothari-Jesek rose and motioned Mark to his feet. "Come on. I want to get a few personal items from the Peregrine. And tell my exec he's got the command, and explain to the troops about being confined to quarters. Thirty minutes."

"Good. Captain Quinn, please remain."

"Yes, sir."

Illyan stood, to see Bothari-Jesek out. "Tell Aral and Cordelia," he began, and paused. Time stretched.

"I will," said Bothari-Jesek quietly. Mutely, Illyan nodded.

The door seals hissed open for her stride. She didn't even look back to see if Mark was following. He had to break into a run every five steps to keep up.

His cabin aboard the ImpSec fast courier proved to be even tinier and more cell-like than the one he'd occupied aboard the Peregrine. Bothari-Jesek locked him in and left him alone. There was not even the time marker and limited human contact of three-times-a-day ration delivery; the cabin had its own computer-controlled food dispensing system, pneumatically connected to some central store. He over-ate compulsively, no longer sure why or what it could do for him, besides provide a combination of comfort and self-destruction. But death from the complications of obesity took years, and he only had five days.

On the last day his body switched strategies, and he became violently ill. He managed to keep this fact secret until the trip downside in the personnel shuttle, where it was mistaken for zero-gravity and motion sickness by a surprisingly sympathetic ImpSec guard, who apparently suffered from some such slight weakness himself. The man promptly and cheerfully slapped an anti-nausea patch from the med kit on the wall onto the side of Mark's neck.