Miles watches all of this with interest - and no small degree of vindication, to finally see Bel Thorne in the role of flustered instead of flusterer.

But nothing good lasts, of course. Miles drifts from his politely unobtrusive distance back into Bel's near proximity and murmurs upwards from its elbow, "Look sharp, Captain." He takes his own advice in the next moment, as their host approaches.

The new Baron Fell - Miles's pre-mission briefing gave his personal name as Georish Stauber - is surprisingly old for someone so new to such a lofty position. He has a genial, grandfatherly air about him, like a balding Santa Claus, fat and jolly with red cheeks and snowy what's-left-of-his-hair. Despite this well-calculated image, Miles doesn't have much trouble keeping in mind that you don't get to be head of a major Jacksonian House by handing out presents at Winterfair.

"Admiral Naismith," says the baron. "Captain Thorne. Welcome to Fell Station."

Miles bows smoothly. And then catches himself when Thorne has trouble copying the gesture - the habits he has can be just as damning to his cover as the habits he lacks; a true Betan, unlike a Vor lord, is not at home with aristocratic courtesies.

But Baron Fell doesn't seem to notice. "Have you been well taken care of so far?"

"Very much, thank you. I particularly enjoyed the hors d'oeuvres," says Miles, giving the phrase the Betan pronunciation.

"Pleased to hear it," says the baron. "And glad to meet you at last. I've heard a great deal about you, Admiral."

"Have you," says Miles. "Good things, I hope?"

"Remarkable things. Your rise has been as rapid as your origins are mysterious."

Miles is now thoroughly confused and not a little nervous. He makes his best effort to conceal both, and favours the baron with a politely inquiring noise.

"The story of your fleet's success at Vervain reached us even here." Miles experiences a brief flash of inappropriate triumph, which he also suppresses. A real admiral oughtn't be so starved for fame. "Such a shame about the previous commander - what was his name?"

"I regret Admiral Oser's death," says Miles, with a sincerity that he suspects won't transfer.

"These things do happen," shrugs the baron. "Command is not a commodity easily shared."

"He would have been more valuable to me as a subordinate than a corpse," says Miles.

"Indeed," says Baron Fell. "Pity he didn't seem to agree."

Right, so Baron Fell thinks Admiral Naismith assassinated the commander of the Oseran Mercenaries to complete his takeover. Well, Baron Fell can think that if he likes. Miles answers him with nothing more than a polite smile.

"And yet, you... you interest me considerably," the baron goes on. "Your apparent age - your prior military career..."

Oh, hell, what does this man know? Miles forces himself to stay calm.

"Do the rumours run equally true about your Betan rejuvenation treatment?" continues the baron, and Miles blinks dizzily. So that's the big mystery Fell thinks he's solved here. Ha.

"What's your interest?" he counters lightly. "Surely on Jackson's Whole of all places, there's no shortage of life extension procedures to be had for a man of your wealth and power. I've heard it said that some Jacksonians are walking around in their third cloned body."

"Not I," says the baron with a shake of his head.

"My condolences, sir," says Miles with his best fake sincerity. The fewer people using that cannibalistic demon-ritual of a medical operation, the better. "Is it a medical problem that bars you, or...?"

"You could say that. I'm not entirely satisfied with the risks of the brain transplant operation. Death, permanent damage... it's a troubling subject."

Miles bites his tongue on any commentary about the one hundred percent fatality rate among innocent clones.

"I see what you mean," he says instead, neutrally.

"And then of course," the baron continues, "there is the... other risk. Some patients die on the operating table from causes other than the strictly medical. If their enemies are sufficiently powerful, sufficiently subtle. I have many enemies, Admiral. This gives me an interest in... less risky alternatives."

"Oh," murmurs Miles. He makes a rapid calculation of his angle, then continues smoothly, "It's true, I once took part in an experiment. To my ultimate regret. Promising results in animal testing failed to carry through to," he gestures to himself, "the first human trial. I won't disturb you with the details, but although my outward appearance is healthy, I experience considerable pain and I have certain inconvenient fragilities. I cannot recommend the procedure."

The baron gazes disappointedly at the short and slightly crooked figure of Miles. "I see," he murmurs. "But surely progress has been made, in the intervening years...?"

"Alas," says Miles. "The project head died of old age, and although I have listened closely, I have heard no rumour of a successor taking up his noble work."

"Oh," sighs the Baron, with a trace of a slump about his shoulders. Miles sympathizes with his crushed hopes, at least as far as they represent a desire - however selfish - to veer away from the Jacksonian practice of cloning new bodies when the old ones wear out. But there's not much he can do, because there is no Betan rejuvenation treatment. He hopes his lie will be sufficiently discouraging to steer Fell away from the false rumour without steering him all the way back to clone consumption.

"Ah, there you are, Fell," says another, much younger-looking baron, dressed after the same general standard as Fell but flanked by a bodyguard who's almost certainly metabolically enhanced and ready to defend his master at the twitch of a finger in the wrong direction.

"Ryoval," says Fell. He introduces Miles and Thorne as corresponding to the Ariel.

Ryoval has no further interest in the Dendarii. He peers around them at Nicol, still floating in her bubble, hands politely palm-to-palm twice over, but a bit farther back from the edge of the bubble at Ryoval's approach and with the air of someone trying very hard not to make a facial expression. "My agent didn't exaggerate her charms. Can you have her play -"

Ryoval's wristcom chimes.

"Excuse me, Georish," he says to Fell, and he attends to the call. "Ryoval. And this had better be important."

The person on the other end assures him that it is, introduces themselves, and informs Ryoval that "that creature House Bharaputra sold us has savaged a customer".

"I told you," says Ryoval, "to chain it with duralloy."

"We did, sir. The chains held; it tore the bolts out of the wall."

"Stun it."

"We have."

"Then punish it suitably when it awakens. A sufficiently long period without food should dull its aggression; its metabolism is unbelievable."

"And the customer?"

"Whatever comforts he asks for. On the House."

"I... don't think he'll be in shape to appreciate them for a while, sir. He's still in the hospital. Unconscious, mercifully -"

"Put," snaps Ryoval, "my personal physician on the case, and I'll take care of the rest when I'm downside, in about six hours. Ryoval out." And that is the end of the call. "Morons. Pardon the interruption, please, Georish. Anyway, can you have her play something?"

"Play something, Nicol," agrees Fell.

Nicol nods, positions herself, and plays, discomfort yielding to a perfect tranquility as she fills the room with music.

Until Ryoval interrupts her. "That's enough - she's precisely as described. My agent described her charms perfectly."

Nicol, frustrated by having to stumble to a halt mid-phrase, jams her dulcimer hammers back into their holders, disgruntled.

"Perhaps you have also received my regrets."

"But my agent was only authorized to negotiate so high - for something so unique there's no substitute for direct contact."

"I enjoy her skills where they are. It's harder at my age to come by enjoyment than money."

"So true. But other enjoyments might suffice. I could arrange something special. Not in the catalog."

"Her musical skills, Ryoval. Which are unique, genuine, not artificial creations to be duplicated in your laboratories."

"My laboratories can duplicate anything."

"Except, by definition, originality."

"Well," says Ryoval. "A tissue sample? It would do her no damage, and you could enjoy her services uninterrupted."

"It would damage her uniqueness. Circulating counterfeits brings down the value of the real thing, you know that, Ry." Fell grins.

"But not for some time. The lead time on a mature clone is at least ten years - ah, but you know that." He bows, apologetically, although he's been impolite.

"Indeed," says Fell coldly.

"Wh-" begins Thorne. "You can't sell a freeborn galactic citizen's tissues! You don't own them, she's not some Jackson's Whole construct."

"He can sell her contract," says Ryoval. "Which is what we were discussing. Privately."

"And what difference does that make, if you're talking to him about her tissue samples - it's totally illegal!"

"I suppose you're Betan," says Ryoval. "That explains it - illegal is whatever the planet you are on chooses to call so and is able to enforce. I don't see any Betan enforcers here to share their morality with us, do you, Fell?"

"So," snaps Thorne, when Fell's only reaction is an amused twitch, "it'd be legal if I drew a weapon and blew your head off, would it?"

(The bodyguard does not seem to like this suggestion.)

Ryoval, meanwhile, seems to be mildly entertained. "You're unarmed. And my subordinates have instructions to avenge me. You would find that it is, in the manner of a natural or virtual law, illegal indeed."

(Fell catches Miles's eye and tilts his head in a "shoo" gesture.)

Miles inclines his head in acknowledgment of Fell's suggestion.

"Time to move on, Captain," he says, not quite going so far as to take Bel by the arm but definitely suggesting through body language that this is a possibility if Bel proves recalcitrant. "We wouldn't want to strain the baron's hospitality."

"Do try the hot buffet," Fell invites, satisfied that at least one of the Dendarii contingent has gotten the hint.

"Ah, a pity. Perhaps on your next trip," says Ryoval. He turns away.

"You can't sell a galactic citizen," says Thorne, not so easily calmed.

Ryoval, in feigned surprise, turns back. "Why, I just realized. You aren't just Betan, you must be a genuine hermaphrodite. Such a rarity. I could double your pay, you know - and you wouldn't have to get shot at - there could be group rates -"

Thorne does not, actually, explode or make an attempt on Ryoval's life, but it's a near thing.

"No? Ah well. But I would pay handsomely for a tissue sample of yours, too. For my files."

"My clone-siblings to be - be your sex-slaves for the next century - over my dead body - b-better yet yours -"

"So Betan," sighs Ryoval, almost affectionate.

"Stop it, Ry," growls Fell.

"Oh, very well. But it's so easy."

"Cool it, Bel. Can't win, time to withdraw," Miles murmurs.

Fell nods in appreciation of Miles's good sense.

"Thank you for your hospitality, Baron Fell," says Miles, covering his distaste with formality when he adds, "Good day, Baron Ryoval."

"Good day, Admiral," says Ryoval, with what seems to be regret at giving up on the entertainment provided by Miles's poorly controlled subordinate. "You have a surprisingly cosmopolitan view, for a Betan. It might benefit you to visit us sometime without your," he flicks his eyes at Bel with eloquent contempt, "narrow-minded friend."

"I don't think so," Miles says as politely as possible. He feels around in the dark of his brain for some cutting follow-up.

"What a shame," Ryoval replies. "I'm sure you'd be enthralled by our dog-and-dwarf act."

Miles blanks out for a moment, experiencing levels of rage too high to sustain cognitive function.

With effort, Miles suppresses a positive response to this suggestion. He bows jerkily to both barons, takes Bel's sleeve in a firm grip in case it's having as much trouble controlling itself as he is, and makes their retreat, under fire from Ryoval's continued laughter.

The House majordomo swoops on them near-immediately with a smiling murmur of, "This way to the exit, please, officers." Miles has been thrown out of previous venues with nearly this much exquisite politeness, but he thinks Fell's majordomo may actually have outdone the Celestial Garden's beleaguered guards. He is duly impressed.

Back on the Ariel, Thorne apologizes.

"Sorry I lost my temper with that squirt Ryoval back there," it mutters.