Medals buy no fleet repairs.

He paused at a transparent portal, caught half by the vista from the jump station and half by his own reflection. Oseran/Dendarii dress

greys were all right, he decided; soft grey velvet tunic set off with blinding white trim and silver buttons on the shoulders, matching

trousers and grey synthasuede boots. He fancied the outfit made him look taller. Perhaps he would keep the design.

Beyond the portal floated a scattering of ships, Dendarii, Ranger,

Vervani, and Alliance. The Prince Serg was not among them, being now in orbit above the Vervani homeworld while high-level—

literally—talks continued, hammering out the details of the

permanent treaty of friendship, commerce, tariff reduction, mutual

defense pact, & etc, among Barrayar, Vervain, Aslund and Pol.

Gregor, Miles had heard, was being quite luminous in both the public relations and the actual nuts and bolts part of the business. Better

you than me, boy. The Vervani jumppoint station was letting its own repairs schedule slacken to lend aid to the Dendarii; Baz was working around the clock. Miles tore himself away from the vista and followed the station commandant.

They paused in the corridor outside the large briefing room where

the ceremony was to take place, waiting for the attendees to settle.

The Vervani apparently wished the principals to make a grand

entrance. The commandant went in to prepare. The audience was not

large—too much vital work going on—but the Vervani had scraped up

enough warm bodies to make it look respectable, and Miles had

contributed a platoon of convalescent Dendarii to fluff up the crowd.

He would accept on their behalf, in his speech, he decided.

As Miles waited, he saw Commander Cavilo arrive with her

Barrayaran honor guard. As far as he knew, the Vervani were not yet aware that the honor-guard's weapons were lethally charged and they had orders to shoot to kill if their prisoner attempted escape. Two hard-faced women in Barrayaran auxiliary uniforms made sure

Cavilo was watched both night and day. Cavilo did a good job of

ignoring their presence.

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The Ranger dress uniform was a neater version of their fatigues, in tan, black, and white, subliminally reminding Miles of a guard dog's fur. This bitch bites, he reminded himself. Cavilo smiled and drifted up to Miles. She reeked of her poisonous green-scented perfume; she must have bathed in it.

Miles tilted his head in salute, reached into a pocket, and took out two nose filters. He thrust one up each nostril, where they expanded softly to create a seal, and inhaled deeply to test them. Working fine.

They would filter out much smaller molecules than the vile organics of that damned perfume. Miles breathed out through his mouth.