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finally doing what it takes to stand up to the power-grubbing corps. They've grown so fat and corrupt, there's no choice left but to burn the whole rotten structure to the ground and start over. We're standing up to bite the dead hand of the past that grinds us into the dust!"
    Roic squinted in dismay as Skinny, impassioned if garbled, elaborated on this theme. The N.H.L.L. appeared to be some sort of local political action group, who, grown frustrated at their inability to win verbal arguments—if this was a sample, Roic could see why—were trying to up the ante with physical demonstrations. Bits and pieces from more considered critiques of local affairs that Roic had overheard at the conference bobbed by in the torrent of complaint, but the gist of harangue seemed to be that Skinny and his fellows were busted and down on their luck, and they figured that if only dead people didn't persist in owning everything in sight, there would be more left for the living. The corps and the corpses seemed muddled together in Skinny's head. Roic refrained from pointing out that actually, the wealth of Kibou-daini was being managed by live people in the name of the dead ones, and even if those were replaced by different live people, it seemed improbable that anyone would choose the N.H.L.L. for the task.
    "Burn the dead!" Skinny finished, in much the tone that one might say Amen at the end of a rote prayer.
    Burn, bury, freeze, Roic didn't see much to choose, except for the loss of some recycled organics. "But what's that got t'do with us?" said Roic plaintively. "We don't vote here. We're leaving next week. Are you after ransom?"
    Skinny made a gesture of proud denial. "No! But we're determined that the Nexus will know of the injustice and suffering and theft on Kibou! No one—not you galactics, not the complacent old salary-folk, fat sheep dreaming only of their own meat lockers, not our own oppressed generation planet-wide—will remain in ignorance after this, no matter how they shut their eyes and ears!"
    "Ah," said Roic. "Publicity stunt, huh?" Roic would have preferred ransom, actually. M'lord could have arranged it in a heartbeat, as soon as he was allowed to contact the Barrayaran consul here, and doubtless some sneaky way of recovering the money afterward, too. And yet, Roic had never heard of a political fringe group that wasn't strapped for cash. "It could be ransom," he essayed cautiously. "Or even reward, depending . . ."
    Skinny looked scornful, but maybe give the idea time to work? Roic had more pressing concerns. "Lord Vorkosigan—t' fellow I work for, you can't mistake him, top of his head would be about level with your shoulder, carries a cane, talks a blue streak—is he here?"
    Was that blank look feigned? Roic wasn't sure. He went on more urgently, "Because if he is, you've got to put us in a room together. I'm his private medtech, and he needs me. He gets these terrible seizures. He's a very important Vor lord, back on Barrayar. They'd pay a lot to get him back unharmed . But if he dies on you, well, you've no idea how ugly it could get." Roic wasn't sure how far to push this theme. M'lord had presumably been keeping a low profile here for a reason, and Roic didn't want to run the ransom price up inadvertently.
    Lord Vorkosigan's post-cryorevival seizures actually consisted of him sinking down, shivering with his eyes rolled back for a couple of minutes in an unattractive manner, and then waking up very, very cranky. The fits were unlikely to be fatal, at least since Lady Vorkosigan had extracted his promise never, ever to attempt to drive himself in any powered vehicle—ground car, aircar, lightflyer, shuttle, or mode unnamed. Horses and bicycles had been a compromise, and though m'lord hated the helmets, he did comply.
    Skinny didn't need to know this, however, so Roic embroidered the medical facts to the limit of his invention till Skinny, doubt growing in his eyes, weakened and said, "All right! I'll ask." He