In case they did not already have an adequate supply of complications, a few hours later Miles takes a call from one Vaughn. Which is the agreed-upon codename of the other person Miles is supposed to be helping jump a Syndicate contract on this trip - real name Dr. Hugh Canaba.

'Vaughn' discloses that he has a problem. He is very vague about the nature of this problem, but very clear that Miles absolutely has to meet him planetside to talk about it in secret. He even invokes the specter of Miles's employer, unaware that Miles's employer has in fact shared with him all the details of this operation and none of the mysterious 'samples' Dr. Canaba is on about were mentioned. The man must be desperate. It's bizarre. But Miles is unable to talk him out of it, and Canaba seems very sincere in his threat to call off the deal and stick with Bharaputra unless Miles comes down to talk to him.

Fine.

Miles comes down to talk to him. And brings Bel. And allows Canaba to lead them from a dingy park through dingy streets to a dingy building where, in a dingy little room, they finally come to a halt.

"I think we can talk safely here," says Canaba.

Miles gestures to Bel, inviting it to check on the truth of this assertion.

"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."

"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."

"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.

The guard reports back in a positive manner!

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

"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.

"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...?"

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."

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."

"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.