“I . . . don't know. There's something funny about Dubauer.”
“In what way? Would I get the joke?”
“If I could say, it wouldn't bother me so much.”
“It seems a fussy old herm . . . maybe something on the academic side?” University, or former university, bioengineering research and development would fit the oddly precise and polite style. So would personal shyness.
“That might account for it,” said Bel, in an unconvinced tone.
“Funny. Right.” Miles made a note to especially observe the herm's movements on and off the Idris , in his records search.
Bel, watching him, remarked, “Greenlaw was secretly impressed with you, by the way.”
“Oh, yeah? She's certainly managed to keep it a secret from me.”
Bel's grin sparked. “She told me you appeared very task oriented . That's a compliment, in Quaddiespace. I didn't explain to her that you considered getting shot at to be a normal part of your daily routine.”
“Well, not daily . By preference.” Miles grimaced. “Nor normally, in the new job. I'm supposed to be rear echelon, now. I'm getting old, Bel.”
The grin twisted half-up in sardonic amusement. “Speaking from the vantage of one not quite twice your age, and in your fine old Barrayaran phrase of yore, horseshit, Miles.”
Miles shrugged. “Maybe it's the impending fatherhood.”
“Got you spooked, does it?” Bel's brows rose.
“No, of course not. Or—well, yes, but not in that way. My father was . . . I have a lot to live up to. And perhaps even a few things to do differently.”
Bel tilted its head, but before it could speak again, footsteps sounded down the corridor. Dubauer's light, cultured voice inquired, “Portmaster Thorne? Ah, there you are.”
Bel moved within as the tall herm appeared in the doorway. Miles noted Roic's appraising eye flick, before the bodyguard pretended to return his attention to the vid display.
Dubauer pulled on its fingers anxiously and asked Bel, “Are you returning to the hostel soon?”
“No. That is, I'm not returning to the hostel at all.”
“Oh. Ah.” The herm hesitated. “You see, with strange quaddies flying around out there shooting at people, I didn't really want to go out on the station alone. Has anyone heard—he hasn't been apprehended yet, has he? No? I was hoping . . . can anyone go with me?”
Bel smiled sympathetically at this display of frazzled nerves. “I'll send one of the security guards with you. That all right?”
“I should be extremely grateful, yes.”
“Are you all finished, now?”
Dubauer bit its lip. “Well, yes and no. That is, I have finished servicing my replicators, and done what little I can to slow the growth and metabolism of their contents. But if my cargo is to be held here very much longer, there'll not be time to get to my final destination before my creatures outgrow their containers. If I indeed have to destroy them, it will be a disastrous event.”
“The Komarran fleet's insurance ought to make good on that, I'd think,” said Bel.
“Or you could sue Graf Station,” Miles suggested. “Better yet, do both, and collect twice.” Bel spared him an exasperated glance.
Dubauer managed a pained smile. “That only addresses the immediate financial loss.” After a longer pause, the herm continued, “To salvage the more important part, the proprietary bioengineering, I wish to take tissue samples and freeze them before disposal. I shall also require some equipment for complete biomatter breakdown. Or access to the ship's converters, if they won't become overloaded with the mass I must destroy. It's going to be a time-consuming and, I fear, extremely messy task. I was wondering, Portmaster Thorne—if you cannot obtain my cargo's release from quaddie impoundment, can you at least get me permission to stay aboard the Idris while I undertake its dispatch?”
Bel's brow wrinkled at the horrific picture the herm's soft words conjured. “Let's hope you're not forced to such extreme measures. How much time do you have, really?”
The herm hesitated. “Not very much more. And if I must dispose of my creatures—the sooner, the better. I'd prefer to get it over with.”
“Understandable.” Bel blew out its breath.
“There might be some alternate possibilities to stretch your time window,” said Miles. “Hiring a smaller, faster ship to take you directly to your destination, for example.”
The herm shook its head sadly. “And who would pay for this ship, my Lord Vorkosigan? The Barrayaran Imperium?”
Miles bit his tongue on either Yeah, sure! or alternate suggestions involving Greenlaw and the Union. He was supposed to be handling the big picture, not getting bogged down in all the human—or inhumane—details. He made a neutral gesture and let Bel shepherd the Betan out.
Miles spent a few more minutes failing to find anything exciting on the vid logs, then Bel returned.
Miles shut down the vid. “I think I'd like a look at that funny Betan's cargo.”
“Can't help you there,” said Bel. “I don't have the codes to the freight lockers. Only the passengers are supposed to have the access to the space they rent, by contract, and the quaddies haven't bothered to get a court order to make them disgorge 'em. Decreases Graf Station's liability for theft while the passengers aren't aboard, y'see. You'll have to get Dubauer to let you in.”
“Dear Bel, I am an Imperial Auditor, and this is not only a Barrayaran-registered ship, it belongs to Empress Laisa's own family. I go where I will. Solian has to have a security override for every cranny of this ship. Roic?”
“Right here, m'lord.” The armsman tapped his notation device.
“Very well, then, let's take a walk.”
Bel and Roic followed him down the corridor and through the central lock to the adjoining freight section. The double-door to the second chamber down yielded to Roic's careful tapping on its lock pad. Miles poked his head through and brought up the lights.
It was an impressive sight. Gleaming replicator racks stood packed in tight rows, filling the space and leaving only narrow aisles between. Each rack sat bolted on its own float pallet, in four layers of five units—twenty to a rack, as high as Roic was tall. Beneath darkened display readouts on each, control panels twinkled with reassuringly green lights. For now.
Miles walked down the aisle formed by five pallets, around the end, and up the next, counting. More pallets lined the walls. Bel's estimate of a thousand seemed exactly right. “You'd think the placental chambers would be a larger size. These seem nearly identical to the ones at home.” With which he'd grown intimately familiar, of late. These arrays were clearly meant for mass production. All twenty units stacked on a pallet economically shared reservoirs, pumps, filtration devices, and the control panel. He leaned closer. “I don't see a maker's mark.” Or serial numbers or anything else that would reveal the planet of origin for what were clearly very finely made machines. He tapped a control to bring the monitor screen to life.
The glowing screen didn't contain manufacturing data or serial numbers either. Just a stylized scarlet screaming-bird pattern on a silver background. . . . His heart began to lump. What the hell was this doing here . . . ?
“Miles,” said Bel's voice, seeming to come from a long way off, “if you're going to pass out, put your head down.”
“Between my knees,” choked Miles, “and kiss my ass good-bye. Bel, do you know what that sigil is ?”
“No,” said Bel, in a leery now-what? tone.
“Cetagandan Star Cr?che. Not the military ghem-lords, not their cultivated—and I mean that in both senses—masters, the haut lords—not even the Imperial Celestial Garden. Higher still. The Star Cr?che is the innermost core of the innermost ring of the whole damned giant genetic engineering project that is the Cetagandan Empire. The haut ladies' own gene bank. They design their emperors, there. Hell, they design the whole haut race, there. The haut ladies don't work in animal genes. They think it would be beneath them. They leave that to the ghem-ladies. Not, note, to the ghem-lords . . .”