Cryoburn-ARC (15 page)

"Good morning,
ohayo gozaimasu
." She favored them all with a formal bow, but her smile zeroed in on Miles. "Lord Vorkosigan, Consul Vorlynkin, Durona-sensei, Roic-san. Wonderful, you're all here. I am Aida, Mr. Ron Wing's personal assistant for today. I will escort you to WhiteChrys's new facility, and answer any questions you may have along the way."

I'll bet not mine,
thought Miles, but returned appropriate greetings and allowed the pretty young lady to shepherd them all into the spacious groundcar. Miles wondered how much her boss had scrambled to find a hostess of that height on such short, as it were, notice.

Ron Wing was the man Miles had been holding out for yesterday, while Vorlynkin fielded oblique messages and visibly refrained from tearing his hair. Wing's official title was Head of Development; he was one of WhiteChrys's chief operating officers, and the man in ultimate charge of the Komarr expansion effort. It was his underlings who had spent so much effort cultivating Miles, and vice versa, during the cryonics conference.
Now we'll see what's on the other end of their string
.

Roic, Aida, and Raven took the rear-facing seat; Miles and Vorlynkin settled opposite. No one even risked bumping heads with each other in the shuffle.

"Reminds me of my Da's old groundcar," Miles murmured to Roic.

"Nah," Roic whispered back, as the driver in the front compartment, who had not been introduced, set them smoothly in motion. "This isn't even half the mass. No armor plating."

Soft-voiced Aida offered a startling variety of drinks from the car's bar, which everyone politely refused after Miles did. Miles tilted his face to the polarized canopy to get a better look at the capital from an above-ground vantage for a change. No actual mountains cradled Northbridge, but it had been long enough since the glaciers had retreated here for streams to have carved the moraines into something other than scraped-flat. The native plant species, rudimentary at best, had pretty much been displaced by urban landscaping based on Earth imports. The city was city, grown up around an infrastructure of galactic-standard transport and technology. If Miles hadn't walked through it himself, he'd have no guess of what strangeness lay below.

The view grew more interesting when they reached the west end and approached the Cryopolis proper.

"The Cryopolis began to be developed some forty years ago," Aida informed them in good guide style, "when further extension of cryofacilities beneath the city grew too expensive. Now Northbridge has grown out to meet it, and it has become its own municipality, named Western Hope."

"And how many representatives does Western Hope field to the Territorial Prefecture's legislature?" Miles inquired.

"Fourteen," she replied brightly.

As many as the parent-city itself, though it occupied a fraction of the area. "Interesting."

Roic's head swiveled around. "What t' heck
.
.
.
?"

"Pyramids!" said Dr. Durona happily, craning too. "Dozens of 'em! Is there a river around here called Denial?"

Miles reminded himself to repress Raven, too, at the earliest private opportunity.

Aida's permanent smile grew briefly pained, but recovered at once. "Those are the facilities of our largest cryonics services competitor, NewEgypt."

About a kilometer of sandstone wall was pierced by a high gate, flanked by huge statues of somber seated figures sporting slim canine heads.

"I saw those before," said Roic, "back at the conference. There was a fellow wandering around in a skimpy costume with a big plastic dog head, handing out flyers. Seemed more like an advertisement for a Jackson's Whole bioengineering firm."

Miles could fill in that one. "The figures are of Anubis, the Egyptian god of the dead," he explained. "They had a number of other gods with animal heads—hawks, cats, cows—that had various figurative meanings. That's actually not a dog but a jackal, which was a carrion-eating scavenger in their ancient deserts. A natural association with death for a preindustrial folk, I suppose." He glanced at Aida and refrained from expanding the parallel, though he did wonder if anyone had bothered to check the translations on those hieroglyphs decorating the walls, or whether they really read something like
Ptah-hotep is a louse!
or
Unas owes Teti one hundred wheat sheaves and a firkin of figs.

Aida glanced at the receding figures and sniffed. "As you can see, they've taken up that era from Old Earth as their corporate theme."

More of a theme park, Miles thought.

Aida added with reluctant admiration, "The pyramids are their cryo-storage facilities. NewEgypt has found that patrons will pay a premium for the more limited luxury space on the upper levels."

"Luxury space?" said Roic. "Isn't it all t' same, once you're frozen? I mean, technologically?"

He glanced at Raven, who murmured, "One certainly trusts so
.
.
."

"Yes, but the cryo-contracts are selected and signed by the living people," Aida explained. "It has been a very appealing and successful program for NewEgypt. They've trademarked that entire historical period to block imitators." She added in a tone of some disappointment, "They were giving away live sphinxes at the conference this year, but our department head was too late to get us one."

With effort, Miles didn't blink, and so he had a good view of the next facility along their route, which featured glass towers and glittering spires wrapped with lines of colored light. The groundcar was well sound-insulated, but he could have sworn a faint bass beat penetrated the canopy. "Music?"

"Shinkawa Consolidated," their guide explained. Sure enough, they passed another gate, with the cryocorp's name displayed over it in shifting rainbow hues. "I believe they are trying to appeal to a younger crowd."

Miles tried to digest that. It wasn't going down. "Surely that would be the smallest market segment."

"Patrons are normally older when their contract is activated, yes," said Aida. "But personal affordability is improved the sooner you sign on and begin your payments. It's actually been a very effective strategy for Shinkawa. If I didn't have a cryo-contract through my own employer, as part of my benefits package, I'd consider them myself." She hid a giggle behind one well-manicured hand. "Though I probably shouldn't tell you that."

Another cryocorp campus appeared on the opposite side of the highway. It seemed to have a lot of trees, but neither walls nor gates—nor gate guards—though a low stone divider bore the name
Northern Spring
. What buildings Miles could spot through the vegetation looked blocky and utilitarian. Miles pointed. "How about those folks?"

"Ah, Northern Spring," said Aida. "They have the distinction of being one of the oldest cryocorps in the region, and one of the first to develop a facility out here, but they are not what we would call top tier."

Actually, according to Miles's not-always-inadequate preliminary reports on Kibou-daini, they were the sixth largest publicly-owned cryocorp presently doing business, which would certainly make them what
he
would call top tier. But the general look of their place was staid to the point of stodgy.

A lot of money was being spent to woo
.
.
.
not the dead, Miles supposed, but the living. Although for personal long-term cryo-sequestration, one might well
want
an immortal entity like a corporation left in charge. Their impressive fronts promised a number of things, but mostly continuity. If only one didn't know that at the secret heart of all such organizations, corporations and governments alike, it still came down to a finite number of fallible people talking to each other
.
.
.

The big groundcar slowed and turned, passing under an enormous red torii gate—WhiteChrys lost no time in asserting its chosen corporate style. The security beeped them through electronically without a pause. They rounded a stand of pine trees and pulled up before the headquarters building. An efficient tower block rose behind, but the visitor first threaded an imitation-traditional garden, all water and walkways, moss clumps, raked pebbles, and delicate red maples. The theme continued inside the big glass lobby with gnarled miniature trees and severe flower arrangements. Amid all this tasteful splendor their hosts awaited, bowing, and Miles shook off the last of his lingering seizure fatigue and gathered his wits.

Ron Wing in person proved middle-aged and trim in formal business attire: undercoat, wide-sleeved outer coat with just a hint of winged shoulders, and baggy trousers in subtle muted blues, complete right down to the split-toe socks and sandals. Style, fabric and cut all signaled status, money, and mode as surely as a Barrayaran Vor male's quasi-military tunic, trousers, and half-boots. The calculated dress was backed up by shrewd eyes and a sober attention.

At Wing's elbow hovered the fellow who had delicately conveyed WhiteChrys's bribe to the Lord Auditor at the party the night before the terrorists/activists/idiotists had struck, so rudely interrupting their promising exchange. Hideyuki Storrs bore the title of executive vice president for development. He wore a slimmer version of his boss's garb, much like Vorlynkin's studiously local dress, tradition modified by utility; Miles had pegged him as a high-ranking minion, but not quite inner circle.

The development department plainly wanted to take up where they'd left off, and Miles was reminded not to let himself be unruffled too soon. No point in wasting a free edge. Half of Miles's maneuvering yesterday had been to climb the chain of command up to One Who Knows. As Aida passed the party on to Storrs, who made the formal introductions to Wing, Miles thought with satisfaction,
Target acquired. Locked on.
By Wing's smile, Miles wondered if his opposite was thinking something similar.

I am more important to you than I ought to be. Why?

"I'm so pleased," said Wing, "that you have allowed us to make up for some of the inconveniences you have lately suffered, Lord Vorkosigan."

Miles made an it's-not-your-fault wave of his free hand, undercut by a thin grimace, and returned, "We can only be grateful that no one was seriously injured or killed in the whole escapade."

"Truly," agreed Wing. "In exchange, this does allow us to give you a much more detailed look at our facility than the general tour would have."

"Some exchange does seem due, yes."

"Would you care for some refreshments? Tea? Or shall we follow galactic custom and begin right away?"

"I'd prefer to jump straight in, actually. My time here is not unlimited."

"Right this way, then
.
.
."

The whole party shuffled off after Wing at Miles's cane-pace, not altogether feigned. Between his underground ordeal and the usual after-effects of the damned seizures, his aches and pains were catching up with him. Aida stuck to his side, as if ready to catch him should he fall over. The prettiest public parts of the HQ building were quickly displayed, then they were wafted by float cart over to another building where actual intake of patrons occurred. Both the front lobby and the back loading docks seemed busy.

"Our patrons come from two sources," Wing explained, leading them down the medically-scented corridors. "Some, who've suffered sudden and unexpected metabolic shut-downs, are actually processed by the hospitals, and then transferred to us for long-term storage. Others, who choose a less chancy mode, come in to our clinics and have us do the processing on-site."

"Wait, they come in
alive
?" asked Roic.

"The healthier you are when frozen, the better your chances of a healthy revival," said Storrs.

"That's quite true," murmured Raven.

Roic's brows drew down, and he shot a glance at Miles, who could only say, "Alas, yes."

"Would you care for a closer look at the technical processes?" said Wing. "That section isn't normally on the public tours, of course. We have some twenty or so freezings scheduled for today. The transfers are of course usually unscheduled."

Miles, who had once endured the whole process far too intimately, if not consciously, waved aside the macabre treat; Roic looked relieved. Vorlynkin bore it all with a wooden expression. Raven, at Miles's thumbs-up behind his back, took the suggestion and went off with Storrs. Miles was glad to exit the processing building; the smell of the place, while not unpleasant, was doing odd jumpy things to his backbrain.

"And how many cryorevivals do you do here in a day?" Miles asked Wing, once they were safely back in the float cart and in motion. He and Wing shared the front seat with the best view, Aida sat facing rearward at their backs, and Vorlynkin and Roic shared the last bench, not quite out of earshot.

Wing hesitated only slightly. "I would have to look that figure up." He glanced back as the cart bowled along through the well-kept grounds. "How did you come to know Dr. Durona?" Included in this jaunt at Miles's—well, not request; Raven had simply been announced in the seat count for the groundcar.

"He and my assistant Roic were rather thrown together during the kidnappings. A bonding experience, I gather."

"Ah, that would explain it. Your Roic looks a fellow I'd want to duck behind in a crisis, too." It was plain Wing had no trouble translating
assistant
as
bodyguard
. No one, looking at Roic and Miles together, ever thought anything else. Miles was fairly sure Wing had not yet decoded the complexities of
Armsman
. Wing went on, "I was intrigued to learn you have a relative who is a major shareholder in the Durona Group. Unless the name Vorkosigan is common on Barrayar?"