Illyan took this in with a waxen stillness. Abruptly, he turned his chair around. Mark could see only the back of his head. His hair was thin. When he turned back, the lines had sprung out on his set face like a figure-ground reversal; like scars. "That's not a problem, Quinn," he whispered. "That's a disaster." He laid his hands down flat, very carefully, across the smooth black surface of the desk. So that's where Miles picked up that gesture, Mark, who had studied it, thought irrelevantly.

"He's frozen in a cryochamber." Quinn licked her dry lips.

Illyan's eyes closed; his mouth moved, whether on prayers or curses Mark could not tell. But he only said, mildly, "You might have said that first. The rest would have followed as a logical supposition." His eyes opened, intent. "So what happened? How bad were his wounds—not a head wound, pray God? How well-prepped was he?"

"I helped do the prep myself. Under combat conditions. I . . . I think it was good. You can't know until . . . well. He took a very bad chest wound. As far as I could tell he was untouched from the neck up."

Illyan breathed, carefully. "You're right, Captain Quinn. Not a disaster. Only a problem. I'll alert the Imperial Military Hospital at Vorbarr Sultana to expect their star patient. We can transfer the cryochamber from your ship to my fast courier immediately." Was the man babbling, just a little, with relief?

"Uh . . ." said Quinn. "No."

Illyan rested his forehead gingerly in his hand, as if a headache was starting just behind his eyes. "Finish, Quinn," he said in a tone of muffled dread.

"We lost the cryochamber."

"How could you lose a cryochamber?!"

"It was a portable." She intercepted his burning stare, and hurried up her report. "It was left downside in the scramble to get off. Each of the combat-drop shuttles thought the other one had it. It was a miscommunication—I checked, I swear. It turned out the medic in charge of the cryochamber had been cut off from his shuttle by enemy forces. He found himself with access to a commercial shipping facility. We think he shipped the cryochamber from there."

"You think? I will ask—what combat drop mission, in a moment. Where did he ship it?"

"That's just it, we don't know. He was killed before he could report. The cryochamber could be on its way literally anywhere by now."

Illyan sat back and rubbed his lips, which were set in a thin, ghastly smile. "I see. And all this happened when? And where?"

"Two weeks and three days ago, on Jackson's Whole."

"I sent you all to Illyrica, via Vega Station. How the hell did you end up on Jackson's Whole?"