Linya is reading about pharmacology, but she puts her pen back on her necklace so she can scoop up her husband instead when he comes her way.

"Hello!" he says, kissing her on the cheek. "I'm afraid I don't have the happiest news - I just got a courier mission. Details are classified, I probably won't even know them all until I'm topside and on my way. No idea when I'll be back. They don't design this job for predictability."

"Okay... I suppose the minimum is about two weeks, since you'll have to go at least as far as Komarr to get anywhere? And probably longer. Well, I will miss you, but I imagine I will be able to occupy myself."

"I'll miss you too." He kisses her cheek again. "Have fun with everything, good luck with the pens, good luck making friends with your gardening buddy. Continuing to make friends. I suppose if she's already your gardening buddy, 'friends' is a milestone you have passed."

"Yes, I think I can safely say that Ekaterin and I are friends. I will do all those things. If you're going to be gone for a completely unpredictable amount of time I might take it into my head to make a business trip to Komarr for pen-business-expansion, but probably not farther this soon. So I might not be here when you get back, but you could stop on Komarr and visit me, perhaps, if the timing works out like that."

"I'll do my best to send a message ahead. No promises, though. It's not inconceivable they could make me come back to Barrayar in total com silence and park in-system for a few days just so no one knows exactly when I returned. Security's the damnedest thing."

"Well, that sounds mind-numbing. Bring plenty of reading material, I guess?"

"Will do."

"When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow morning, I'm afraid."

Linya sighs. And snuggles up. "Early?"

"Yeah."

"Well, then I suppose any elaborate goodbying should be handled presently."

"...I find myself in full agreement," says Miles.

Well, with agreement secured, elaborate goodbyes may be had!

They're so elaborate.

They are fond goodbyes. They may have to last a while!

So very elaborate. So very fond. Miles is going to be extremely farewelled.

"Wretched hive of scum and villainy, yes sir," chirps Thorne, and it's off to peel the Ariel away from its friends without anybody getting curious and plot a course.

Miles disengages from his contemplation of their shopping list. "Enter," he invites.

In comes Thorne. And Thorne's flowery perfume. It salutes. "We're docking in thirty minutes, sir."

"Oh, once, when I was with Admiral Oser's fleet. House Fell's changed barons since. The reputation for the weapons is the same, though - good if you know what you're buying and don't take discount neutron hand grenades."

Miles fails to suppress a snicker. "Recommended for the strong of throwing-arm, eh? Fear not, our shopping list is carefully curated." He extracts the data disk from the comconsole's slot and holds it out for Bel to take.

Bel leans over to take it. It's in uniform, but has chosen undergarments that make this the most obvious fact about its person by a smaller margin than usual. "And... crew leave?" it inquires, plucking the disk from his hand with a little overlap of fingers on the way. "While we wait for cargo load-up. You, too, why not, there's a hostel I remember that should still be there. Pool, sauna, brilliant little cafés." Its voice softens. "They've got double rooms."

"I was intending to limit the crew to day passes," he says, with the quellingest look he can muster. He's afraid it's not up to par.

"You know I'm a woman," Thorne murmurs, "too, don't you?" It puts a hand gently on his shoulder.

"Among many other things, yes," says Miles, "such as for example my subordinate, in case you'd forgotten."

"That's not really your objection, is it? I can't picture you being very careful about fraternization if it weren't for - I don't know what it is. Hopeless amounts of monosexuality?"

"Try 'monogamy'," he suggests.

"Really. So, if you'll excuse me—" He gently lifts Bel's hand off his shoulder.

"Sure. Sorry." Thorne withdraws its hand. "Aww. Admiral Naismith with a wife-or-whatever safe at home on Beta Colony? Boring place..."

"But a great one to raise kids, yes," he says, smiling wryly.

"'Course it is." Thorne tilts its head. "You are," it pronounces, "an almost perfect Betan. So close - you have the accent, you have the in-jokes..."

Thorne reaches out and touches his cheek.

He can't quite suppress a flinch.

"Reflexes," says Thorne. "Don't worry. I won't tell."

"Well, thank you for that," he says, mildly disgruntled. "Now would you like to hear about the mission?"

"Inventory," snorts Thorne.

"Inventory isn't the mission, it's the cover," Miles corrects. "Here I am, a mercenary admiral, looking to establish a relationship with the new Baron of House Fell, biggest arms supplier this side of Beta Colony itself and considerably less inclined to hold their noses before selling swords to the swordsellers. Perfectly legitimate, at least by Jacksonian standards. And while we're here, we're going to pick up a new recruit, a middle-aged man looking to sign on as a medtech. At which point all crew leave is cancelled, we finish loading cargo as fast as we can stuff it into the hold, and we saunter innocently away as fast as we can innocently saunter."

"Aha. He'll be sorely missed, I imagine? Someone hopes very badly he'll turn up at the office party and will take exception."

"You could say that, yes. He's the top geneticist in the research arm of House Bharaputra's infernally infamous biolabs. When he deserts us the moment we make fleet rendezvous by Escobar and seeks refuge with an unnamed planetary government, we will be terribly offended that he took us in with his 'simple medtech recruit' ruse. Which should mollify Baron Bharaputra enough that he won't have his enforcement arm chase us down and wipe us off the astromap."

"Nice, simple payday," says Thorne.

"So I trust." So he hopes, more like. "Now go place our order. And since you were so keen on shore leave, you can accompany me to Baron Fell's next social gathering for high-paying and/or otherwise interesting customers. I imagine he'll fit me into his schedule sometime in the next day or so."

"Why the hell not?" Miles murmurs under his breath. "I imagine poisoning your customers is a counterproductive business practice." He selects two refreshments at random, one mysterious green leaf-shaped niblet that turns out to be a dyed pastry with a jelly filling made from mystery fruit, and one mysterious drink that turns out to have too high an ethanol concentration for Miles's skewed metabolism. He discreetly leaves the small crystal goblet on the next flat surface they pass, afraid that a second sip might be enough to trigger the soporific effect that the substance has on him in any significant quantities. Mustn't meet Baron Fell while asleep on his feet.

Thorne doesn't have that problem and keeps hold of its beverage.

"Good God. She's a quaddie," says Thorne.

"A what?"

"Quaddie. What's she doing all the way out here?"

"Not an, er, local product, then?"

"Oh, no."

"I'm relieved. I think," mutters Miles. "So where did she come from?"

"Oh, about two hundred years ago, around when hermaphrodites were invented, there were all sorts of projects, in the wake of the development of the uterine replicator in its practical form. Later there were restrictive laws about it most places, but first someone thought they'd make freefall-dwellers. Only for artificial gravity to be invented. The quaddies migrated off beyond Earth relative to here, got rather insular, I'm very surprised there's one this far out."

Thorne almost applauds, but no one else seems to be paying much attention to the performance; it would be the only one.

"Oh - I suppose," says Bel, smiling, and it approaches the grav-bubble. "Ah - hello."

The quaddie - vaults is not the right word for an action perfomed in null gravity, but at any rate goes over her instrument to float on the other side of it and be within comfortable speaking distance of Thorne. "Hello."

"What do you call the instrument? It's fantastic," says Thorne, almost blurting it.

"It's a double-sided hammer dulcimer, si- ma'am? - officer."

"Captain Bel Thorne," supplies Thorne. "Of the Ariel, Dendarii Free Mercenaries. Enchanted. What brings a quaddie all the way out here?"

"Oh - you've heard of us? Most people think I'm - manufactured - I worked my way as far as Earth, and was looking for further employment. Baron Fell hired me."

"I've heard of quaddies, yes - I'm, ah, a Betan hermaphrodite myself, have a bit of personal interest in the early genetics explosion. What's your name?"

"Nicol. So you're a genetic too?"

"Certainly. No last name?"

Nicol shakes her head. "My people don't use them."

"Nicol is a beautiful name," adds Thorne. "What are you doing after the party -?"

"Cool down, Bel," Miles mutters.

"Admiral," says Ryoval. "Do stop by my establishment if you get downside. Even a Betan can expand his horizons. I am sure my staff can find something interesting in your price range."

"I'm afraid not," says Miles. "Baron Fell already has our credit chit."

"Fry 'em," recommends Thorne. "From orbit."

"Squirt? Hell, he's older than you are," says Miles. "Got to be on his second body at least. And he played you like a piano. We were entirely outmatched. Next time, please shut up at the first hint."

"And that poor girl, stuck in that bubble with people discussing selling her -" sighs Thorne. "One chance to talk to her and I - babbled."

"Yes, I've seen you present a multitude of faces to the world, but 'sexual panic' has got to be a new one," says Miles. "If it's any consolation, I was much worse off the first time I met my wife."

"Oh really? That sounds like a story," says Thorne with a weak smile.

"I literally fell to my knees the first time I saw her face," he reminisces. "Amazingly, she found this endearing instead of hopelessly pathetic. Or maybe endearing and hopelessly pathetic. I have admittedly not asked for clarification."

"Good lord," says Thorne. "All right. So who knows. To your knees? On the floor? Can't scarcely credit it. I don't suppose I can see your wedding holos."

"Private ceremony, alas. No pictures."

"Ah, terrible pity. She must be really something."

"She is."

"Your face. I never had a chance. All the happiness to you, Admiral."

"Thank you, Bel."

And here is Nicol, in a custom float-chair designed to be piloted with her lower hands and support her null-gee-designed body while her upper arms remain free. She zips in, positions herself agreeably relative to furniture and people, and looks at Thorne.

"Nicol! It's so nice to see you again."

Nicol smiles just a little bit - then she's all business. "Captain Thorne. Admiral Naismith. You're - mercenaries, are you not?"

"We are...?"

"And - if I read you correctly - you have some understanding for my situation? Empathy for the position I find myself in."

"You're dangling over a pit," murmurs Thorne.

"And I mean to find a way to safety."

"Safety from what? It seems to me that Baron Fell offers... reasonable security. Against threats such as Baron Ryoval. You could hardly ask for a more powerful protector in Jacksonian local space than the Baron of the local arms dealers."

"He's dying. Or thinks he is, at any rate."

"I gathered as much. What confuses me are his dark hints about why he won't just occupy a clone like any other soullessly unscrupulous rich man."

"He had one commissioned, and House Bharaputra was happy to take the job. The clone was fourteen, full-sized, all ready - and assassinated a few months ago. He doesn't know who did it, though his half-brother tops the list of suspects. And the new one isn't even decanted yet. It'll be years before he can transplant, and during those years anything could happen to him, or the new clone."

"What a fascinating choice of target," murmurs Miles. "Assassinate the new body, leaving him trapped in the... old. And what is this unknown enemy's next move? Wait him out?"

"I couldn't say, but I don't want to find out what happens to me if I'm still here then. And - I can't buy my way out of unless the baron decides to let me. I didn't realize back on Earth what it'd mean - and the cost of living just keeps going up - and there's five years left in my contract."

"So you," says Miles, attempting to keep the irony out of his voice, "want us... to help you jump a Syndicate contract. Smuggle you out in secret, no doubt."

"I can pay you. More now than I'd be able to later on, for certain. This - wasn't the gig I thought I was signing up for. If I ever want to get all the way back home I have to reach a wider audience and bring in more money than I'm ever going to collect under contract. I want out, before I - fall downside and never come up again." She pauses. "You aren't afraid of Baron Fell, are you?"

"Yes," he admits. "Or at least, let's say, inclined to be careful of him."

Thorne looks scornful.

Nicol glances between them, then produces a wad of Betan dollars - a single on top conceals its value, but when Thorne flips through it it's at least a couple thousand worth of middle denominations under that. "Does this," Nicol asks, "improve your nerve?"

"What do we mercenaries think of that?" Thorne wonders to Miles.

Thorne smiles and fans through the money and stacks it back up. "The idea's sound," it tells Nicol. "But the amount's wrong -" When Nicol frowns uncertainly and reaches into her jacket, Thorne peels off the single and hands back the larger bills. "One dollar. To make it a proper deal, you see."

Nicol is confused, but shakes Thorne's outstretched hand with a smile.

"Beware, hero," says Miles, "your independence extends as far as your ability to pull this off without inciting Fell to send in the hounds. If your plan seems likely to land us in deep shit, I'm calling in my veto."

"Yes, sir," agrees Bel.

Thorne produces various devices and performs various scans, of the premises, of Canaba. It sets up a sonic baffler. "Scans clean. For now," it reports.

"The horse," says Thorne, shocked.

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

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

"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."

"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."

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

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

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

"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.

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

"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."

"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."

"Yes?"

"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."

"Fuck. Be careful," advises Thorne.

Thorne, meanwhile, receives the panic button, hightails it with the non-Miles Dendarii contingent back to the Ariel, invites Nicol over for "wine, and contingencies" so that when Miles is recovered they can bolt without having to fetch her separately, and sets about making calls.

The dark proves to be not so pitch as all that; once Miles's eyes have time to adjust, they perceive a dim yellow glow radiating from parts of the ceiling. Some kind of emergency lighting, he supposes. It suffices to allow him to examine the inside of the hatch, which yields no latches or catches or handles when thoroughly probed with eyes and questing hands, nor any other detectable means by which he can coax it open and escape; a promising protrusion turns out to be the place where a previously existing handle was torn out and the hole filled with some kind of industrial sealant. Defeated, he makes the climb down the bitingly cold ladder to the merely uncomfortably chilly rock some few meters below.

Under that intent stare, Miles promptly produces his ration bar and holds it out in a trembling hand.

"Water, water, right..." says Miles, trying not to be too obvious about leaning away from the - creature's? person's? - starved and bloodshot gaze. "Water comes in pipes - there's pipes around here, plenty of them - let's, um, go look for one, shall we?" He edges away a few steps, reluctant to turn his back on this apparition. "Should be white plastic, with a certain kind of jointing - I'd recognize it if I saw it."

Miles yelps and clings tightly. He has visions of being dropped at this speed, and rolling onward, probably to break every non-plastic bone in his body...

But in fact, Seven sets him down quite gently below a cluster of pipes, and points up. "Those?"

Seven contemplates this notion for a moment in absolute stillness, then crouches again to admit Miles onto his shoulders and stretches up smoothly to his full height.

Miles puts a hand on the pipe to steady himself, but he needn't bother. Seven is a bony perch, but solid as the bedrock on which he stands. Now, grab here and there, and turn... blessed luck, the joint gives way before Miles's fragile fingers do anything more than ache warningly. With a squeak and a crack, the pipe disjoins, sagging a few inches at the juncture and loosing a sparkling stream of water to splash onto the rocky floor.

Seven trails him silently.

At last: "There!" He points triumphantly, then deflates slightly. "I can't get the joints this time, though, they don't twist open the same way and the pipe's too big for me to turn if they did. I don't suppose you...?" He eyes the looming figure of Seven, seemingly comprised of muscle and bone and damn little else. "Maybe if you, I don't know, scored the plastic with your nails and then gave it a really good shove?" He scratches his own nails lightly around the circumference of the pipe, by way of demonstration.

Seven follows this suggestion. Scratch scratch scratch - his talonlike fingernails appear to weaken the plastic considerably, and then he climbs up between the pipe and the ceiling and braces himself there and pushes down. The hard plastic splinters apart where he scored it and gives a vast exhalation of hot air, before Seven wraps himself around the broken place and clings.

"Yeah. What do they call you?" he inquires, shifting to one side to allow Miles a spot in the cozy breeze.

"Admiral Miles Naismith."

"Hm," says Seven. "I always thought officers would be... bigger."

"We'll get each other out of here," he promises. "Recruit-trainee... look, do you like being called Seven?"

He shakes his head.

Asterion smiles. It is infinitely less terrifying than the previous example.

He claws his hair out of his face and follows Miles into the dark. "Fifteen and three months, standard."

"Pretty well." He points out various features. "There's the ladder you came down, and three more, there and there and there - only one of them has a handle up top, and that's been locked every time I've tried it. There's a few different kinds of pillars all over the place. Over by the far end there's a big door that looks like it's supposed to roll up, but the controls to roll it up with don't work, or I couldn't get them to."

"Right," says Miles. "So..." He thinks aloud. "We can head straight out the door, if I can get it open. And trek twenty-seven kilometers barefoot through the snow to the nearest settlement, with no money or comm equipment to call for a ride at the end of it. Or we can hang around and look for some promising ducts and see if we can't make off with something useful. The kit they took away from me when they caught me would be a prime start. I think I'm going to go with ducts on this one. Agreed?"

Asterion ponders, then nods.

Asterion catches it and helps him set it down outside the column, then regards him with a mildly impressed expression.

"Sure," says Asterion. He waits until he hears Miles stop climbing again, then moves up and reaches over. The panel comes off easily, and he turns it carefully to push it through the opening and lay it on the floor of the dark but comparatively well-lit room.

"What do you see out there?" whispers Miles.

Asterion pokes his head out, looks around, then retracts it and whispers back. "Big room, lots of little lights from displays and stuff. No people, no windows. One door."

"All right, time to go exploring," murmurs Miles. "Can you get back down to the basement, put the panel back on, and come back up here? It seems to me that if we get out this way, it would be advantageous to make that as un-obvious as possible."

"Yeah," says Asterion. He starts climbing down the ladder again.

"I don't believe we can get out this way," Miles whispers back. "Damn. But there might be food in the refrigerator, if I know lab techs..." That was a twenty-four-hour ration bar, but this is an eight-foot-tall teenage boy with God knows what kind of accelerated metabolism. Miles peers into the fridge and extracts an illicitly stored sandwich accompanied in its rough paper package by a large pear. "Hungry?" He offers them to his companion with a conjuror's flourish.

"Not as hungry as usual," he says, but he still accepts and devours the stolen meal. "What were you looking at when I got here?"

"We can't pick it up and carry it off," says the practical Asterion. "What's its value to us?"

"Ha," says Miles. "Listen, have you met Ryoval?"

He nods.

"Did you like him?"

"No."

"Me neither," says Miles. "Did you know these freezers have a temperature control that goes up to two hundred degrees centigrade, to heat-sterilize the interior for cleaning and maintenance?"

Asterion gets the picture. He grins.

Asterion does as suggested, then looks down at Miles. "And the lesson...?"

Asterion casts a thoughtful glance around the room before following Miles down, replacing the panel yet again on the way.

"All right," says Asterion. He follows Miles to the duct and boosts him up into it.

"I found a way... back in," he says. "And some extra clothes that you might be able to squeeze into." He hands Asterion the big bundle. "Now to decide whether we go for the twenty-seven-K trek through the snow, or steal a vehicle."

"I could carry you twenty-seven kilometers through the snow," Asterion predicts. "Which way's easier to track?"

"Could you carry me twenty-seven kilometers through the snow faster than I could keep up myself? ...Probably," he answers his own question. "All right. I think... advantage goes to the long walk, because people leave tracks in snow, but stolen vehicles are likely to be missed faster than prisoners vanished out of an unmonitored sub-basement, and most instruments are better at finding vehicles than people. I just wish I'd been able to find some spare cash, any spare cash..." He glances back at the jammed hatch in an agony of temptation. "I don't fancy having to barter for comm access with a couple pocketloads of miscellaneous basement junk, but neither do I fancy nipping up there for another look around and stumbling on a guard come down to check on us or replace a lost boot or something."

"I could come with you," Asterion suggests. "Those guards don't go around in groups big enough to take me down."

"It only takes one hit with a nerve disruptor," says Miles. "They're probably under orders not to kill you - or me, for that matter - but we don't know that for sure. And you're not as easily hidden as I am - can't tuck you into small corners..." But he's wavering. "All right, you can come up for a quick look around. But if we see any guards before they see us, we at least try hiding, all right?"

"Sure," he allows.

Asterion watches in fascination.

Back they go.

"Over the wall," Miles whispers back, pointing. "You'll have to boost me up. Then we wander through the woods until I get my bearings."

Asterion nods. Over they go. They don't see anyone on the way, nor do any guards come boiling out of the building to chase them down.

Then there are woods. It takes much less wandering than advertised for Miles to get oriented and point out the appropriate direction.

"Admiral!" exclaims Thorne, when it answers. "What in God's name - well, I guess that puts paid to the ransom discussion, I'll string them along a bit more for cover while a shuttle goes to fetch you, shall I?"

"That would be just perfect, thank you."

"Right. Do you want the shuttle where you're calling from or a rendezvous somewhere else?"

"If you can land a shuttle in commercial parking, by all means do so, and I'll meet you there. I feel that the residents of this town would be alarmed by a full-on emergency pickup in the middle of the street."

"Dispatching," chirps Thorne, "and then operation Screw It He's Not Worth That Much Money Watch Us Innocently Saunter is go." It salutes.

Eventually a shuttle appears! It is very tidily landed. Its pilot is surprised to see Asterion. "Uh, sir? What's that?"

"This is Recruit-trainee Asterion," chirps Miles. "He'll be signing on officially as soon as we get topside."

Recruit-trainee Asterion smiles in a fang-concealing manner.

"...yessir," says the pilot, and without further ado she hauls Miles and Asterion up to the Ariel.

Thorne grins. "For my encore, I backpedal with Fell, I went to him after Ryoval didn't seem to want to deal in good faith."

"I adore you. You're adorable. Go on, don't let me stop you - by the way, I brought back a stray, Recruit-trainee Asterion is considerably more human than advertised and was invaluable in securing my escape. I sent him off with Laureen for as many square meals as he can fit in his stomach - Ryoval's people have been starving that overengineered metabolism for the past three days, he needs it."

"Sure thing, sir," blinks Thorne. "Uh, fair warning, I was casting about for things which might interest Fell and all he wanted was the secret of the Betan rejuv treatment..."

"Ha. Lucky we don't have to give it to him, I suppose."

"Oh?" says the Baron. "A pity... I stood to benefit considerably from that trade." He sighs. "But I admit I'm glad not to give up the quaddie musician. Her musical ability is beyond compare. Unique and precious."

"And how'd she take to this cover—? Never mind," says Miles, "an honourable herm doesn't kiss and tell, I'm sure - I'm almost tempted to call Fell back, to deal for her aboveboard now that I know his price, but I'm not sure even I could convince him to trade her for the real secret of the Betan rejuvenation treatment. And you know how convincing I can be. Still, it would certainly be convenient not to have to dodge armed pursuit on our way out of the system."

"Did my dear little brother put you up to this?" hisses Ryoval, wiping some of the excess spittle from the corner of his mouth.

Miles blinks. "Who?"

"Baron Fell!" exclaims Ryoval, livid.

"I... was unaware of the relation," says Miles. "Little brother?" He could swear he's heard something about - right, Nicol mentioned Fell's half-brother as a prime suspect in the murder of his clone. Said half-brother presumably being Ryoval... and why did the mission briefing not cover this little wrinkle? All the detail he could desire on the subject of House Bharaputra, who have barely featured in this drama at all, and nothing about the Ryoval-Fell connection. He's going to have some sharp words for Illyan when he gets back. In the meantime, he itches to undock, but he is not yet ready to provoke Fell so openly.

"You're a bad liar," sneers Ryoval. "I knew he had to be behind this. I'll have your head! Shipped frozen in a box! Encased in plastic - better yet, double for the man who brings you back alive - you will die slowly - Or was it House Bharaputra who hired you, trying to block me from cutting into their biologicals monopoly instead of merging as they promised?"

"You know bloody well! But which of them hired you - which?!"

He smirks. "What, can you not believe I was acting on my own? A personal blow against the genetic slave trade, my gift to future generations?"

"Fell, or Bharaputra?" snarls Ryoval. "Did you think to conceal a theft for Bharaputra with that - that wanton destruction?"

"Yessir," says Thorne, dialing and getting out of his way.

"Right away, sir," beams Thorne.

Through some feat of wizardry, the stores computer has been made to cough up a genuine grey-and-white Dendarii uniform in Asterion's exaggerated size. Shirt, jacket, boots, and trousers, all crisp and neat and proper. He has also found time to shower, and his long greenish-black hair has been brushed to a surprising softness and tied back into a ponytail, his fingernails trimmed neatly and evenly to a less alarming length, his teeth brushed. He is at present sitting in the mess hall, finishing a bowl of anonymous rice-and-something of which too little remains to be clearly identified.

"Ah, good, they fed you," says Miles, brightening slightly. "Everything all right so far?"

He grins briefly, flashing fang. "Yeah. I like the food." The last morsel disappears out of the bowl.

"Good, good..." Miles perches in a chair across the otherwise-deserted table from his trainee. "I, um... have something to tell you, before you make your trainee's oath. If you make your trainee's oath. We could just as easily drop you off on Escobar to make your own way, if you prefer."

Asterion cocks his head inquiringly. "Mm?"

He nods, frowning slightly.

"The injection contained a package of dormant gene complexes - he was using you as storage for copies of his life's work. He wanted me to retrieve them, and," Miles inhales again, "kill you. Seemed to have some idea of saving you from - from - I don't know, existing? He sold me the idea well enough that I bought it and agreed to the mission, but - well - once I met you it became obvious pretty quickly that you were not the helpless suffering beast he described to me. So. The purpose of my visit to Jackson's Whole was to pick up Dr. Canaba; he resides now aboard this ship, and has been told only that I returned from my mission alive and accompanied by the tissue samples he requested. I have not yet allowed him to learn that they are still attached to the living organism from which he asked me to extract them."

Asterion regards Miles in a thoughtful silence.

"I can't imagine he wouldn't, but I'm not going to put you through any medical procedure you don't agree to," says Miles. "The well of my generosity for Dr. Canaba has been thoroughly exhausted."

"I don't mind if you grab what he needs as long as my leg still works afterward," says Asterion, touching the knot in his calf. "But that's you, not him. I think it'd be a good idea if I didn't see Dr. Canaba at all."

"That can be arranged," Miles assures him. "All right. And you have until Escobar to decide if you're getting off or staying on - I won't rush you."

"What do you mean, how? We put him in a uniform and started him on training and he's taken right to it. Is he going to be all right on rat bars and incidentals or do we need to scare up weird supplements?"

"I mean - he hasn't tried to rip anyone's limbs off?"

"Well, he's asked not to be put in a room with you," snorts Thorne, "and if I were you I'd abide very carefully by that request."

Canaba looks unhappy.

"...We'll have to tell Asterion," Miles sighs. "God knows how he'll take it. I could just about strangle that Canaba. If ever there was a semi-noble impulse more thoughtlessly executed - speaking of noble impulses, on a happier note, how is Nicol?"

"Happier," says Thorne, smiling. "...But very definitely planning to jump ship at Escobar, collect gigs until she has enough to move on, and play her way back home to her folks."

Miles pats Thorne's arm consolingly. "Well, you have three more days until then, right? Best of luck."

"Thank you, sir."

Miles grins. And goes off to catch up on his lost sleep.

When appraised of his projected lifespan, Asterion takes the news with a philosophical shrug. He also takes to basic training with alert enthusiasm and superhuman aptitude. It's pretty clear even before they reach Escobar that he plans to take his trainee's oath and stay on with the Dendarii.

Nicol, however, kisses Thorne goodbye and floats away.

Linya beams and giggles and scoops him up. "I missed you!"

"I forgot how pretty you were," Miles says in a small, embarrassed voice. Then he beams and hugs her fiercely. "I love you. I missed you too."

"Oh goodness, you forgot?" chuckles Linya, squeezing back as snugly as is wise. "I'll have to have a nice holo taken for you to remember me by. I love you too." She kisses him.

"Aha." Nuzzle. She goes - still holding him - to the nearest couch, on which she flumphs with him in her lap. "I wonder if that will keep happening or if in the long run you could hare off for an entire year and come back and just think 'oh, there is Linya'."

"I'm not sure which outcome to hope for. Although I know I hope not to have to hare off for an entire year."

"Yes, I hope you will do no such thing." Snuggle. "I'd say welcome home, but you got here first. Pens are up and running on Komarr," she adds. "And seeing quicker early adoption, too."

"Well, welcome home to you, then. Do they come in any exciting new colours? Have you gotten any interesting design feedback? Did you see an enormous bump in sales when Gregor started using his?"

"The standard colors are the same, and there will be only four until we have better statistics on which of the custom colors get ordered most frequently. Ekaterin had a suggestion that I'm working on - the projection range for pens is short, but they technically have enough hardware to notice if you move around and how, so if she takes hers out to her garden and draws something over the dahlias and then wanders to the runner beans, it ought to be able to remember where these things are relative to each other - and then resize to an arbitrarily scaled map of the garden for later investigation. There's a software update planned to let it handle that in the standard drawing program within the next few months. And the sales bump was significant but not enormous."

He kisses her on the cheek. "Good for Ekaterin, then. Are you getting along? Do you like her?"

"We are and I do. I think I could probably ask her to be involved in a groatful wedding now."

"All right." Nuzzle. "And there will be colorful groats and oaths and it will be very wedding-y."

"Yes. Wedding-y and groatful." He's not going to let that one go anytime soon.

"You are easily charmed by neologism."

This inspires her to get up off the sofa so she can twirl him around. "You are so cute."

Miles squawks and then clings to her, giggling. "I'm very pleased you think so!"

She flumphs down again and kisses him.

He snuggles into her lap and kisses back. "I love you. You're delightful. An absolute treasure. I'll even let you get away with picking me up and twirling me around. Because I love you so."

"Is it a matter of getting away with it?" she wonders. "I'm not certain I could kick the habit of scooping you up in the first place if I tried - well, I could, but it would be legitimately challenging - but if you do not care to be twirled I can do without."

"It's a matter of finding endearing from you what I would find inexcusable from anyone else."

"Aha. We shall have to make sure that no one infringes on my wifely entitlements. I might get jealous, on top of your own dismay."

"I am certainly not going to stand by and let myself be twirled by unauthorized persons."

"Well, no. If unauthorized persons are trying to twirl you, your feet will not be near enough the ground for standing."

"Metaphorical standing, Linya. Standing of the metaphorical kind."

"Aha. That you could surely do from arbitrarily compromising positions."