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[isthisart]

Linya gradually feels her way around being proper friends with Ekaterin, not wishing to wreck things with a premature "will you be my Second at my duplicate wedding" request. There is companionable gardening. There is, when Linya and Jocelyn make an unexpected sudden breakthrough in causing the nibs to behave, which holds when they fabricate a prototype and test it out, a fountain pen for Ekaterin. (In addition to Miles's and Count Vorkosigan's. And one for Emperor Gregor, which has got to be worth all the R&D in advertising alone.) When Miles's legs are more or less completely healed, they skip off to Vorkosigan Surleau for a few days and he teaches her to fly a lightflyer, which she enjoys very much and picks up very quickly. Linya writes Miles a song. (It has no words, she doesn't feel up to lyrics, but it is very pretty and slightly different every time she plays/sings it.) With the nibs handled and all the Barrayaran languages learned Linya spends more time reading textbooks and signs up for a university placement exam to see how far ahead into advanced classes on various things she can skip, and awaits her results.

And snuggles her tiny Barrayaran.

Comments

[thisvorlunatic]

"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."

[whyexit]

"The horse," says Thorne, shocked.

[thisvorlunatic]

"Among other things, yes. Too many other things."

"You... mixed human and animal genes...?" says Miles.

"Of course. Why not? It's been done plenty in the other direction. And it worked, or seemed to... until the first ones reached puberty, and we started to see the errors..."

"Were there," Miles asks, restraining with great effort a hysterical laugh that threatens to bubble up from the region of his stomach, "any genuine combat-experienced soldiers on the committee?"

"I assumed the client had those. They supplied the parameters."

[whyexit]

"And how could that possibly go wrong?" mutters Thorne.

[thisvorlunatic]

"After the first run of ten prototypes, the client - ah - went out of business," says Canaba. "They lost their war."

"Can't imagine why," murmurs Miles.

"With no funding, the project was dropped... the prototypes fared badly, afterward. Nine out of ten have died. The last, number seven, is where I stored my gene complexes. We had been keeping it at the lab - there were problems when we tried to house it elsewhere... the last thing I meant to do before I left was kill it. I feel it is my responsibility. To correct the mistake I made in bringing the thing to life."

"And...? What happened to the critter?" Miles asks.

"House Ryoval bought it. I can't imagine why. For the novelty, I suppose, but..." Canaba shakes his head. "I had no idea it was to be sold. I came in that morning and - gone. Off to Ryoval's biologicals facility, I must presume."

Miles suppresses a shudder on contemplating this. "And what do you mean us... practical folks... to do about it?"

"Get in there and kill it. Collect a tissue sample. Destroy the remains - if possible, there should not be a single cell left over to analyze."

"That's what plasma arcs are for," says Miles. "What, ah...?" He has visions of ears and a tail, perhaps a pelt. God only knows.

Canaba correctly interprets his searching gestures. "The left gastrocnemius muscle," he supplies. "The storage viruses won't have gone far. The injection site should still hold the greatest concentrations."

"All right," sighs Miles. "We'll take care of it. But you can't make personal contact again before you report to my ship. Plan to sign on in the next forty-eight hours, and then don't talk to us in the meantime. Is this beast-soldier of yours going to give us any trouble on pickup? Is it easily recognized?"

"Ah... I don't think recognizing it will be a problem. It's a little over eight feet tall, and - well - I want you to know I was not involved in the decision to give it fangs."

Miles revises his mental images.

"Anyway," Canaba continues, "it can move very fast, if they've been feeding it adequately... is there anything I can do to help? I could provide painless poisons..."

"No, thank you," Miles says firmly. "Please leave it to the professionals. You'd best be on your way."

"Yes... ah, Admiral Naismith?" the doctor adds.

"Yes...?"

"It occurs to me that my future employer... I'd rather they didn't hear about this project. I've heard they have intense military interests, and I don't want to excite them unduly."

"It won't be a problem," sighs Miles, fully intending to write up a detailed report for Illyan on exactly what Canaba said about the critter and its genetic cargo.

"Is forty-eight hours enough time...? You understand, if you don't get the tissue, I'm turning around and leaving."

"Leave it to us," says Miles in his best authoritative admiral voice. "You will be happy. It's in my contract. Now - " he gestures to the door.

"I must rely on you, sir," says Canaba, looking like he'd rather not, and he scuttles out of the chilly room. Miles stamps his feet gently for warmth and waits for the Dendarii trooper shadowing Canaba to report back on whether he has safely reached his vehicle.

[whyexit]

The guard reports back in a positive manner!

"Well," says Thorne. "Suppose we'll need a plan of Ryoval's facilities, then, to start."

[thisvorlunatic]

"Like hell," says Miles. "I'm not risking lives for this. I said I'd get the critter; I never specified how. C'mon, let's get out of this frozen hole."

They exit the frozen hole and make their way to the less frozen but still rather hole-like shuttleport, where Miles takes advantage of a commercial comconsole booth to place a call.

"House Ryoval Customer Services," the receptionist says pleasantly. "How may I help you, sir?"

"I'd like to speak to - " Miles pulls the man's name out of his memory " - Manager Deem, in Sales and Demonstrations, about a possible purchase for my organization."

"Who may I say is calling?" inquires the receptionist.

"Admiral Miles Naismith, Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet."

"One moment, sir," says the receptionist, with a charmingly dimpled smile that dissolves a moment later into an animation of swirling coloured lights and soothing music.

[whyexit]

"You think they'll just sell it?" says Thorne, skeptically.

[thisvorlunatic]

"For a song," Miles predicts. "Don't you remember that call we overheard? Now h'sh."

Only a few seconds later, the animation re-dissolves into a new face - a blue-eyed albino man wearing a red silk shirt and an enormous bruise that splashes red-purple-black all down one side of his face. Oh, yes. They're in business.

"This is Manager Deem," says the man. "May I help you, Admiral?"

Miles affects an air of casual inquiry. "I've been told rumours indicate House Ryoval may have recently acquired something from House Bharaputra that interests me in a professional capacity - some kind of super-soldier prototype? What can you tell me about it?"

"The rumours are true," says Deem, raising one hand as though to touch that magnificent bruise and then dropping it again before quite making contact. "The... being... is in our possession."

"Is it for sale?" he asks next.

"Oh, yes," Deem says fervently, and then catches himself and adds, "That is, it may be possible for you to place a bid."

"Might I inspect the creature before making a decision?"

"Of course," Deem assures him, with a thin varnish of professional smoothness covering blatant desperation. "How soon might sir wish to make this inspection...?"

[alicornucopia]

The vid image flickers and splits, half Deem, half now occupied by Ryoval.

"I'll take this call, Deem."

"Yes, m'lord," says Deem promptly, and his half of the image disappears, allowing Ryoval to take over the screen.

"So, Betan," Ryoval smiles. "It appears I have something you want after all."

[thisvorlunatic]

"Do you?" asks Miles. "What's apparent from my point of view is that you have some sort of creature that might or might not be useful to me but is certainly dangerous enough to you that your sales manager was falling over himself to dump it in my lap."

[alicornucopia]

"He lets his personal anxieties affect his work. The creature is quite impressive and hardly unrestrainable," Ryoval assures him smoothly. "But I could possibly arrange a cut rate for you."

[thisvorlunatic]

"Personal anxieties," Miles snorts. "Right. Do tell."

[alicornucopia]

"I propose," says Ryoval, "a simple trade, flesh for flesh."

[thisvorlunatic]

Miles raises his eyebrows. "Don't overestimate my interest, Baron."

[alicornucopia]

"I don't think I do. I'll trade you Bharaputra's monster - live and full-grown as it is - for three tissue samples. You," he holds up a finger, "your Betan hermaphrodite," he adds another, "and Fell's quaddie musician." Three fingers.

[whyexit]

Thorne is not trying to strangle Ryoval through the screen! Good for Thorne.

[thisvorlunatic]

Miles supposes it must be fairly obvious that he wouldn't touch Ryoval with a long stick if something wasn't compelling his interest. That doesn't mean he has to admit as much.

"The third could prove difficult to obtain," he observes. "Nor am I eager to part with the first or second. I was willing to be convinced to take the creature off your hands. You are not convincing me."

[alicornucopia]

"You could obtain her sample more easily than I; Fell knows my agents," says Ryoval. "I am not in such a hurry as Deem to be rid of my purchase, at any rate - I expect to hear from you in the next twenty-four hours. After that, my offer will be withdrawn." He inclines his head. "Good day, Admiral."

The screen blanks.

[thisvorlunatic]

"What the hell's he want my sample for?" wonders Miles. "God... commando raids risk lives, you know. Tissue samples seem, ah, harmless in comparison."

[whyexit]

"I imagine he plans to fold your little brother into the dog-and-dwarf act," snaps Thorne. "And similar for mine and hers - you'd have to fight me for either."

[thisvorlunatic]

"Yeah, imagine his face when my clone turned out to be six feet tall... fuck it." He throws up his hands. "Let's go find us a map of the sin-monger's flesh pit."

They obtain a map. And a commando team. And a rental lift-van, which they drive to a mountain side-trail overlooking Ryoval's main biologicals facility, a complex of several large buildings clustered tightly within a larger fenced-off area, patrolled by a sprinkling of visible guards.

The team's pilot, Sergeant Laureen Anderson, does an excellent job setting the lift-van down in a perfect imitation of a stalled-engine sprawl without actually damaging its vital components in any way. Miles has assigned her as getaway driver, to wait at this roadside outpost with Thorne and another trooper in case the raid team requires backup or a quick exit; he hopes neither Thorne nor Anderson has twigged to the gender distributions involved. It's not that he doesn't believe women and herms competent to pull off this raid; it's just that some corner of his Barrayaran soul wails at the thought of what would happen to them on a live capture. Not that the male troopers would be in for anything less exciting, if the rumours Miles has heard are true, but his internal prejudices are not amenable to the soundness of this logic.

So.

He runs over the pre-mission briefing one more time, to refresh everyone's memory. The plan is: get in, pick up the first employee they see who looks likely to know something about Bharaputra's creature, apply fast-penta, extract the intel, race the clock to get to the thing and dispatch it and retrieve the tissue sample and burn the body and get out again before the drugged employee's absence is noticed. Their planned route lights up on the map projection, and he gives them all some time to study it and compare it with the view down the mountain.

"Remember, the word is quietly," he cautions. "The plasma arcs stay packed until we find the creature - you're to stick with stunners until then. Before I get the sample, we are but harmless little lambs frolicking into the facility, and at the first sign of serious trouble we will surrender quietly and await ransom. After I get the sample and cremate the critter, it's back to combat rules, with the highest priority being getting that sample back to Captain Thorne intact. Laureen, please confirm your choice of emergency pickup spot on the map."

She points it out on the vid display.

"Everyone got that? Are we clear on all details? Anything to say last-minute?" He surveys his troops, then nods. "Right. Communications check."

They verify the function of all their wristcoms. Ensign Murka dons the weapons pack. Miles turns off the map display and tucks the cube in his pocket. A very expensive but utterly critical little convenience, that, obtained from the construction company that built and modified the complex. Miles, Murka, and the other two troopers who will be accompanying them into the facility all creep out of the van and head down the wooded slope.

At the outer wall of the complex, Murka and the troopers boost Miles over, then climb it themselves and hand him down the other side. Their journey through the inner court is interrupted by one close encounter with a guard, during which they huddle in a dark corner and imitate bags of trash, covering themselves in IR-reflective ponchos brought along for just this purpose. The guard and his scanner pass them by.

Now comes the magic moment: Miles scrambles up to stand on Murka's shoulders and cut through a narrow ventilation grille, then wriggles his way into the duct thus revealed. A bigger man wouldn't fit; a heavier man would be likely to fall through the ceiling on the trip. Miles slithers all the way to the corresponding interior grille, a tight but not impassable squeeze, and locates the controls for the loading bay doors once he has safely reached the floor. Then he disables the alarm and foxes the controls, raising the door high enough for his team to crawl through.

Once they're all inside, he lowers the door again, and they're off across the cavernous receiving bay. A stack of shipping containers provides cover behind which they hide from a passing janitor; then it's down into a tunnel, at the end of which Miles stands on Murka's shoulders a second time and hauls himself up into the ceiling, where a tangle of power cables awaits. As he examines them for the set that will open the next door, the weapons pack rises through the open panel to nestle in beside him, and the panel itself ghosts back into place.

That was not part of the plan. Miles squirms around silently until he can peer through the crack between one panel and the next. Murka is just done lowering his arm when a shout from the corridor freezes him in place. Armed guards pour in through the door which Miles was about to carefully unlock, surrounding Murka and the troopers.

Miles thinks some very bad words very loudly, but allows nothing more than a silent huff of breath to escape his lips.

"What are you doing here?" growls the leader of the pack.

"Oh, shit!" yelps Murka. "Please, mister, don't tell my CO you found us in here. He'd bust me back to private!"

"Huh?" The guard sergeant responds to his confusion by prodding Murka with a nerve disruptor. "Hands up! Explain yourself!"

"We - we came into Fell Station on a mercenary ship," Murka says nervously, "but the captain wouldn't grant us downside passes. I mean, come on!" Indignation overpowers fear. "All the way to Jackson's Whole, and we're not even allowed on the planet? I wanted to see Ryoval's!"

Meanwhile, the guards commence searching Murka and the two troopers, coming up with nothing but stunners and Murka's share of the security penetration widgetry.

"So I made a bet, see, that even if we couldn't afford the front door I could get us in the back."

"They're not armed like an assassination team," one of the guards observes.

"We aren't!" protests Murka, in deep offense.

"AWOL, are you?" inquires the guard sergeant.

"Only if we stay out past midnight... look," says Murka, adopting a pleading air. "My CO's a real bastard. Is there any way I could convince you not to let him know about this?" His hand hovers by his wallet pocket, suggesting one possible avenue of persuasion.

"Maybe," allows the smirking guard sergeant.

A base for negotiation having been established, Murka adds, "Any chance you could let us see inside first? Not the girls even, just the place? So I could say I'd seen it."

The sergeant frowns. "This isn't a whorehouse, soldier boy!"

"What?" gapes Murka, with a realistic expression of confused dismay.

"This is the biologicals facility."

"Oh," says Murka.

"You fucking idiot," mutters one of the troopers, giving Murka a sour look. Miles resolves on the spot that all three of them are getting bonus pay if they pull this off. Murka can have a promotion.

"But the man in town," says Murka, not quite ready to let go of hope. "He said - "

"What man?" interrupts the guard sergeant.

"The, uh. One who took m'money," mumbles Murka, deflating.

The guard sergeant gestures with his nerve disruptor. "Get moving, boys. Back that way. This is your lucky day."

"You mean we get to see inside?" Murka asks, brightening.

"No. I mean we aren't going to break your legs before we throw you out on your ass." He motions his men to search the troopers again, this time checking their identification and relieving them of any loose currency, while subjects Murka to the same indignity. Murka is appropriately indignant, but declines to argue with the sergeant's deadly authority. "There's a whorehouse back in town," the guard sergeant adds as he replaces Murka's wallet in the pocket from which it came. "They'll take your credit cards." And the guards prod Murka and the troopers back down the tunnel toward the loading bay.

Amazing.

Miles waits until he can hear absolutely nothing from any of them before he activates his wristcom. "Bel?"

[whyexit]

"Yes?"

[thisvorlunatic]

"Trouble. Ryoval's security found Murka and the troops. He spun the most beautiful web of bullshit you ever heard, and they're currently being thrown out the back door as opposed to getting an uncomfortable look at the inner workings of the biolab, but I'm squirrelled away in a ceiling panel. I'll follow them out as soon as I can, to rendezvous and regroup... but first I'm going to see if I can't locate the critter myself. Might improve our chances for the next round, God help us. If Lady Luck is with me I might even pull off getting that sample before I squirrel my way back out."

[whyexit]

"Fuck. Be careful," advises Thorne.