"Fine," says Miles. "So. Dr. Canaba." He spreads his hands, inviting explanations.
Dr. Canaba eyes Miles unhappily. "You're meant to protect me from House Bharaputra?"
"I am," Miles says evenly. "I will. But I cannot fulfill that mission if you jerk me around. Not out of personal offense, you understand - personal offense doesn't enter into it. I need to know what I'm doing in order to take responsibility for doing it."
"No one's asked you to take responsibility."
Miles raises his eyebrows. "Oh, but they have, Doctor."
"I... see," says Canaba. He sighs; paces a few steps, then returns. "But will you do what I ask?"
"Tell me what you want me to do," Miles suggests, "and I'll tell you if I can do it."
Canaba takes a deep breath, then exhales it anticlimactically and shakes his head, beginning to pace again. "When I came here, I was looking for freedom, not money. The freedom to do the research I wanted. What I got was the research they wanted. I nearly drowned in it! And my own results, my own breakthroughs - I get no resources to devlop them, merely because the projected profit margins are insufficiently exciting. No thought to who it would benefit besides House Bharaputra! And I can publish nothing - I am constantly taunted by the literature of my field, filled with lesser men being honoured for their lesser work because no one has heard of me and mine. It was frustration that drove me to contact your employers. Wounded ego... nothing more than wounded ego. But the shame of it! Do you understand? Can you understand?" He gestures helplessly.
"I would be more than happy to listen until I do," says Miles. "On my ship. Proceeding toward the dropoff with all speed."
"Ah," sighs Canaba, "a practical man. Well - well, God knows I could use one."
"I had received the impression you were having some difficulty," Miles agrees.
"I thought I had things under control - but - " Canaba sighs. "There were seven synthesized gene-complexes. One cures an obscure enzyme disorder. One massively accelerates oxygen generation in space station algae. One is from outside Bharaputra Labs, brought in by - well - we were never sure. Anyone who worked openly on his project was murdered in a commando raid shortly after he left, all their records and samples destroyed. I never mentioned I'd borrowed a tidbit to study. I don't fully understand it yet, but what I've gleaned so far is... truly extraordinary."
Miles manages not to choke. He recognizes the description from previous Dendarii reports on an encounter aboard Kline Station. Dr. Canaba does not need to know that Barrayar already has a copy of this sample, nor that the sample in question is a large part of the reason why they're looking for a geneticist in the first place, until he arrives at his new laboratory. But, God, if the ones Canaba isn't listing are worth anywhere near as much...
"All together, these seven complexes represent nothing less than my life's work. I was always going to take them with me. I had used a viral insert to store them in an... organism, in a dormant state. I had thought no one would look there."
"Why," Miles asks reasonably, "didn't you just store them in your own tissue? Harder to misplace that way."
This stops Canaba in his tracks. "I - I never thought of that. Why didn't I think of that?" He puts his hand to his forehead as though examining it for faults. "But - no. It doesn't make a difference. I would still need to - this organism, you understand - "
No. Miles does not understand. He awaits enlightenment with decreasing patience.
"Of all the things I regret doing, that I have done in this vile place... this is the one I regret the most. It was - it was years ago, I was younger, I thought I was building my future..." He shakes his head. "House Bharaputra took on a contract to manufacture a... a new species. Made to order."
"I thought it was House Ryoval that was famous for making - creatures - to order," says Miles.
Canaba shakes his head. "One-offs. Specialized slaves. For a tiny customer base. Rich men and depraved men both exist in plenty, but Ryoval caters to the overlap, which is... smaller. The Bharaputra contract was meant to end in a production run. Some planetary government or either wanted us to design a race of super-soldiers."
"Hasn't that been tried? Over and over and over again? To variously worthless results?"
"Well, we were confident enough to take their money. But the project suffered from too much input. The client, the Bharaputran higher-ups, all the members of the genetics project, all pulling in different directions. It was doomed before it got out of the design committee."
"And then...?" prompts Miles, privately boggling at the idea of a super-soldier designed by commmittee.
"Well... as you said, the super-soldier project has been tried. The practical limits of the merely human have been explored. But of the inhuman - well, I for one was intrigued by the muscle metabolism of the thoroughbred horse."
no subject
Dr. Canaba eyes Miles unhappily. "You're meant to protect me from House Bharaputra?"
"I am," Miles says evenly. "I will. But I cannot fulfill that mission if you jerk me around. Not out of personal offense, you understand - personal offense doesn't enter into it. I need to know what I'm doing in order to take responsibility for doing it."
"No one's asked you to take responsibility."
Miles raises his eyebrows. "Oh, but they have, Doctor."
"I... see," says Canaba. He sighs; paces a few steps, then returns. "But will you do what I ask?"
"Tell me what you want me to do," Miles suggests, "and I'll tell you if I can do it."
Canaba takes a deep breath, then exhales it anticlimactically and shakes his head, beginning to pace again. "When I came here, I was looking for freedom, not money. The freedom to do the research I wanted. What I got was the research they wanted. I nearly drowned in it! And my own results, my own breakthroughs - I get no resources to devlop them, merely because the projected profit margins are insufficiently exciting. No thought to who it would benefit besides House Bharaputra! And I can publish nothing - I am constantly taunted by the literature of my field, filled with lesser men being honoured for their lesser work because no one has heard of me and mine. It was frustration that drove me to contact your employers. Wounded ego... nothing more than wounded ego. But the shame of it! Do you understand? Can you understand?" He gestures helplessly.
"I would be more than happy to listen until I do," says Miles. "On my ship. Proceeding toward the dropoff with all speed."
"Ah," sighs Canaba, "a practical man. Well - well, God knows I could use one."
"I had received the impression you were having some difficulty," Miles agrees.
"I thought I had things under control - but - " Canaba sighs. "There were seven synthesized gene-complexes. One cures an obscure enzyme disorder. One massively accelerates oxygen generation in space station algae. One is from outside Bharaputra Labs, brought in by - well - we were never sure. Anyone who worked openly on his project was murdered in a commando raid shortly after he left, all their records and samples destroyed. I never mentioned I'd borrowed a tidbit to study. I don't fully understand it yet, but what I've gleaned so far is... truly extraordinary."
Miles manages not to choke. He recognizes the description from previous Dendarii reports on an encounter aboard Kline Station. Dr. Canaba does not need to know that Barrayar already has a copy of this sample, nor that the sample in question is a large part of the reason why they're looking for a geneticist in the first place, until he arrives at his new laboratory. But, God, if the ones Canaba isn't listing are worth anywhere near as much...
"All together, these seven complexes represent nothing less than my life's work. I was always going to take them with me. I had used a viral insert to store them in an... organism, in a dormant state. I had thought no one would look there."
"Why," Miles asks reasonably, "didn't you just store them in your own tissue? Harder to misplace that way."
This stops Canaba in his tracks. "I - I never thought of that. Why didn't I think of that?" He puts his hand to his forehead as though examining it for faults. "But - no. It doesn't make a difference. I would still need to - this organism, you understand - "
No. Miles does not understand. He awaits enlightenment with decreasing patience.
"Of all the things I regret doing, that I have done in this vile place... this is the one I regret the most. It was - it was years ago, I was younger, I thought I was building my future..." He shakes his head. "House Bharaputra took on a contract to manufacture a... a new species. Made to order."
"I thought it was House Ryoval that was famous for making - creatures - to order," says Miles.
Canaba shakes his head. "One-offs. Specialized slaves. For a tiny customer base. Rich men and depraved men both exist in plenty, but Ryoval caters to the overlap, which is... smaller. The Bharaputra contract was meant to end in a production run. Some planetary government or either wanted us to design a race of super-soldiers."
"Hasn't that been tried? Over and over and over again? To variously worthless results?"
"Well, we were confident enough to take their money. But the project suffered from too much input. The client, the Bharaputran higher-ups, all the members of the genetics project, all pulling in different directions. It was doomed before it got out of the design committee."
"And then...?" prompts Miles, privately boggling at the idea of a super-soldier designed by commmittee.
"Well... as you said, the super-soldier project has been tried. The practical limits of the merely human have been explored. But of the inhuman - well, I for one was intrigued by the muscle metabolism of the thoroughbred horse."