Lois McMaster Bujold - Vorkosigan Short Story - Labyrinth

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LABYRINTH

by Lois McMaster Bujold

A Vorkosigan Short Story

Miles contemplated the image of the globe glowing above the vid plate, crossed his arms, and stifled

queasiness. The planet of Jackson's Whole, glittering, wealthy, corrupt. . . . Jacksonians claimed their

corruption was entirely imported?if the galaxy were willing to pay for virtue what it paid for vice, the

place would be a pilgrimage shrine. In Miles's view this seemed rather like debating which was superior,

maggots or the rotten meat they fed off. Still, if Jackson's Whole didn't exist, the galaxy would probably

have had to invent it. Its neighbors might feign horror, but they wouldn't permit the place to exist if they

didn't find it a secretly useful interface with the sub-economy.

The planet possessed a certain liveliness, anyway. Not as lively as a century or two back, to be sure,

in its hijacker-base days. But its cutthroat criminal gangs had senesced into Syndicate monopolies,

almost as structured and staid as little governments. An aristocracy, of sorts. Naturally. Miles wondered

how much longer the major Houses would be able to fight off the creeping tide of integrity.

House Dyne, detergent banking?launder your money on Jackson's Whole. House Fell, weapons deals

with no questions asked. House Bharaputra, illegal genetics. Worse, House Ryoval, whose motto was

"Dreams Made Flesh," surely the damndest?Miles used the adjective precisely?procurer in history.

House Hargraves, the galactic fence, prim-faced middlemen for ransom deals?you had to give them

credit, hostages exchanged through their good offices came back alive, mostly. And a dozen smaller

syndicates, variously and shiftingly allied.

Even we find you useful. Miles touched the control and the vid image vanished. His lip curled in

suppressed loathing, and he called up his ordnance inventory for one final check of his shopping list. A

subtle shift in the vibrations of the ship around him told him they were matching orbits?the fast cruiser

Ariel would be docking at Fell Station within the hour.

His console was just extruding the completed data disk of weapons orders when his cabin door

chimed, followed by an alto voice over its comm, "Admiral Naismith?"

"Enter." He plucked off the disk and leaned back in his station chair.

Captain Thorne sauntered in with a friendly salute. "We'll be docking in about thirty minutes, sir."

"Thank you, Bel."

Bel Thorne, the Ariel's commander, was a Betan hermaphrodite, man/woman descendant of a

centuries-past genetic-social experiment every bit as bizarre, in Miles's private opinion, as anything

rumored to be done for money by House Ryoval's ethics-free surgeons. A fringe effort of Betan

egalitarianism run amok, hermaphroditism had not caught on, and the original idealists' hapless

descendants remained a minority on hyper-tolerant Beta Colony. Except for a few stray wanderers like

Bel. As a mercenary officer Thorne was conscientious, loyal, and aggressive, and Miles liked him/her/it?

Betan custom used the neuter pronoun?a lot. However. . . .

Miles could smell Bel's floral perfume from her. Bel was emphasizing the female side today. And had

been, increasingly, for the five days of this voyage. Normally Bel chose to come on ambiguous-to-male,

soft short brown hair and chiselled, beardless facial features counteracted by the grey-and-white

Dendarii military uniform, assertive gestures, and wicked humor. It worried Miles exceedingly to sense

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Bel soften in his presence.

Turning to his computer console's holovid plate, Miles again called up the image of the planet they

were approaching. Jackson's Whole looked demure enough from a distance, mountainous, rather cold?

the populated equator was only temperate?ringed in the vid by a lacy schematic net of colored satellite

tracks, orbital transfer stations, and authorized approach vectors. "Have you ever been here before, Bel?"

"Once, when I was a lieutenant in Admiral Oser's fleet," said the mercenary. "House Fell has a new

baron since then. Their weaponry still has a good reputation, as long as you know what you're buying.

Stay away from the sale on neutron hand grenades."

"Heh. For those with strong throwing arms. Fear not, neutron hand grenades aren't on the list." He

handed the data disk to Bel.

Bel sidled up and leaned over the back of Miles's station chair to take it. "Shall I grant leaves to the

crew while we're waiting for the baron's minions to load cargo? How about yourself? There used to be a

hostel near the docks with all the amenities, pool, sauna, great food . . ." Bel's voice lowered. "I could

book a room for two."

"I'd only figured to grant day passes." Necessarily, Miles cleared his throat.

"I am a woman, too," Bel pointed out in a murmur.

"Among other things."

"You're so hopelessly monosexual, Miles."

"Sorry." Awkwardly, he patted the hand that had somehow come to rest on his shoulder.

Bel sighed and straightened. "So many are."

Miles sighed too. Perhaps he ought to make his rejection more emphatic?this was only about the

seventh time he'd been round with Bel on this subject. It was almost ritualized by now, almost, but not

quite, a joke. You had to give the Betan credit for either optimism or obtuseness . . . or, Miles's honesty

added, genuine feeling. If he turned round now, he knew, he might surprise an essential loneliness in the

hermaphrodite's eyes, never permitted on the lips. He did not turn round.

And who was he to judge another, Miles reflected ruefully, whose own body brought him so little

joy? What did Bel, straight and healthy and of normal height, if unusual genital arrangements, find so

attractive in a little half-crippled part-time crazy man? He glanced down at the grey Dendarii officer's

uniform he wore. The uniform he had won. If you can't be seven feet tall, be seven feet smart. His reason

had so far failed to present him with a solution to the problem of Thorne, though.

"Have you ever thought of going back to Beta Colony, and seeking one of your own?" Miles asked

seriously.

Thorne shrugged. "Too boring. That's why I left. It's so very safe, so very narrow. . . ."

"Mind you, a great place to raise kids." One corner of Miles's mouth twisted up.

Thorne grinned. "You got it. You're an almost perfect Betan, y'know? Almost. You have the accent,

the in-jokes . . ."

Miles went a little still. "Where do I fail?"

Thorne touched Miles's cheek; Miles flinched.

"Reflexes," said Thorne.

"Ah."

"I won't give you away."

"I know."

Bel was leaning in again. "I could polish that last edge . . ."

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"Never mind," said Miles, slightly flushed. "We have a mission."

"Inventory," said Thorne scornfully.

"That's not a mission," said Miles, "that's a cover."

"Ah ha." Thorne straightened up. "At last."

"At last?"

"It doesn't take a genius. We came to purchase ordnance, but instead of taking the ship with the

biggest cargo capacity, you chose the Ariel?the fleet's fastest. There's no deader dull routine than

inventory, but instead of sending a perfectly competent quartermaster, you're overseeing it personally."

"I do want to make contact with the new Baron Fell," said Miles mildly. "House Fell is the biggest

arms supplier this side of Beta Colony, and a lot less picky about who its customers are. If I like the

quality of the initial purchase, they could become a regular supplier."

"A quarter of Fell's arms are Betan manufacture, marked up," said Thorne. "Again, ha."

"And while we're here," Miles went on, "a certain middle-aged man is going to present himself and

sign on to the Dendarii Mercenaries as a medtech. At that point all Station passes are cancelled, we

finish loading cargo as quickly as possible, and we leave."

Thorne grinned in satisfaction. "A pick-up. Very good. I assume we're being well-paid?"

"Very. If he arrives at his destination alive. The man happens to be the top research geneticist of

House Bharaputra's Laboratories. He's been offered asylum by a planetary government capable of

protecting him from the long arms of Baron Luigi Bharaputra's enforcers. His soon-to-be-former

employer is expected to be highly irate at the lack of a month's notice. We are being paid to deliver him

to his new masters alive and not, ah, forcibly debriefed of all his trade secrets.

"Since House Bharaputra could probably buy and sell the whole Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet twice

over out of petty cash, I would prefer we not have to deal with Baron Luigi's enforcers either. So we

shall be innocent suckers. All we did was hire a bloody medtech, sir. And we shall be irate ourselves

when he deserts after we arrive at fleet rendezvous off Escobar."

"Sounds good to me," conceded Thorne. "Simple."

"So I trust," Miles sighed hopefully. Why, after all, shouldn't things run to plan, just this once?

The purchasing offices and display areas for House Fell's lethal wares were situated not far from the

docks, and most of House Fell's smaller customers never penetrated further into Fell Station. But shortly

after Miles and Thorne placed their order?about as long as needed to verify a credit chit?an obsequious

person in the green silk of House Fell's uniform appeared, and pressed an invitation into Admiral

Naismith's hand to a reception in the Baron's personal quarters.

Four hours later, giving up the pass cube to Baron Fell's major domo at the sealed entrance to the

station's private sector, Miles checked Thorne and himself over for their general effect. Dendarii dress

uniform was a grey velvet tunic with silver buttons on the shoulders and white edging, matching grey

trousers with white side piping, and grey synthasuede boots?perhaps just a trifle effete? Well, he hadn't

designed it, he'd just inherited it. Live with it.

The interface to the private sector was highly interesting. Miles's eye took in the details while the

major domo scanned them for weapons. Life-support?in fact, all systems?appeared to be run separately

from the rest of the station. The area was not only scalable, it was detachable. In effect, not Station but

Ship?engines and armament around here somewhere, Miles bet, though it could be lethal to go looking

for them unescorted. The major domo ushered them through, pausing to announce them on his wrist

comm: "Admiral Miles Naismith, commanding, Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet. Captain Bel Thorne,

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commanding the fast cruiser Ariel, Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet." Miles wondered who was on the

other end of the comm.

The reception chamber was large and gracefully appointed, with iridescent floating staircases and

levels creating private spaces without destroying the illusions of openness. Every exit (Miles counted

six) had a large green-garbed guard by it trying to look like a servant and not succeeding very well. One

whole wall was a vertigo-inducing transparent viewport overlooking Fell Station's busy docks and the

bright curve of Jackson's Whole bisecting the star-spattered horizon beyond. A crew of elegant women

in green silk saris rustled among the guests offering food and drink.

Grey velvet, Miles decided after one glance at the other guests, was a positively demure choice of

garb. He and Bel would blend right into the walls. The thin scattering of fellow privileged customers

wore a wide array of planetary fashions. But they were a wary bunch, little groups sticking together, no

mingling. Guerrillas, it appeared, did not speak to mercenaries, nor smugglers to revolutionaries; the

Gnostic Saints, of course, spoke only to the One True God, and perhaps to Baron Fell.

"Some party," commented Bel. "I went to a pet show with an atmosphere like this once. The high

point was when somebody's Tau Cetan beaded lizard got loose and ate the Best-In-Show from the canine

division."

"Hush," Miles grinned out of the corner of his mouth. "This is business."

A green-sari'd woman bowed silently before them, offering a tray. Thorne raised a brow at Miles?do

we . . . ?

"Why not?" Miles murmured. "We're paying for it, in the long run. I doubt the baron poisons his

customers, it's bad for business. Business is emperor, here. Laissez-faire capitalism gone completely

over the edge." He selected a pink tid-bit in the shape of a lotus and a mysterious cloudy drink. Thorne

followed suit. The pink lotus, alas, turned out to be some sort of raw fish. It squeaked against his teeth.

Miles, committed, swallowed it anyway. The drink was potently alcoholic, and after a sip to wash down

the lotus he regretfully abandoned it on the first level surface he could find. His dwarfish body refused to

handle alcohol, and he had no desire to meet Baron Fell while either semi-comatose or giggling

uncontrollably. The more metabolically fortunate Thorne kept beverage in hand.

A most extraordinary music began from somewhere, a racing rich complexity of harmonics. Miles

could not identify the instrument?instruments, surely. He and Thorne exchanged a glance, and by mutual

accord drifted toward the sound. Around a spiraling staircase, backed by the panoply of station, planet,

and stars, they found the musician. Miles's eyes widened. House Ryoval's surgeons have surely gone too

far this time. . . .

Little decorative colored sparkles defined the spherical field of a large null-gee bubble. Floating

within it was a woman. Her ivory arms flashed against her green silk clothes as she played. All four of

her ivory arms. . . . She wore a flowing, kimono-like belted jacket and matching shorts, from which the

second set of arms emerged where her legs should have been. Her hair was short and soft and ebony

black. Her eyes were closed, and her rose-tinted face bore the repose of an angel, high and distant and

terrifying.

Her strange instrument was fixed in air before her, a flat polished wooden frame strung across both

top and bottom with a bewildering array of tight gleaming wires, soundboard between. She struck the

wires with four felted hammers with blinding speed, both sides at once, her upper hands moving at

counterpoint to her lowers. Music poured forth in a cascade.

"Good God," said Thorne, "it's a quaddie."

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"It's a what?"

"A quaddie. She's a long way from home."

"She's?not a local product?"

"By no means."

"I'm relieved. I think. Where the devil does she come from, then?"

"About two hundred years ago?about the time hermaphrodites were being invented," a peculiar

wryness flashed across Thorne's face, "there was this rush of genetic experimentation on humans, in the

wake of the development of the practical uterine replicator. Followed shortly by a rush of laws

restricting such, but meanwhile, somebody thought they'd make a race of free fall dwellers. Then

artificial gravity came in and blew them out of business. The quaddies fled?their descendants ended up

on the far side of nowhere, way beyond Earth from us in the Nexus. They're rumored to keep to

themselves, mostly. Very unusual, to see one this side of Earth. H'sh." Lips parted, Thorne tracked the

music.

As unusual as finding a Betan hermaphrodite in a free mercenary fleet, Miles thought. But the music

deserved undivided attention, though few in this paranoid crowd seemed to even be noticing it. A shame.

Miles was no musician, but even he could sense an intensity of passion in the playing that went beyond

talent, reaching for genius. An evanescent genius, sounds woven with time and, like time, forever

receding beyond one's futile grasp into memory alone.

The outpouring of music dropped to a haunting echo, then silence. The four-armed musician's blue

eyes opened, and her face came back from the ethereal to the merely human, tense and sad.

"Ah," breathed Thorne, stuck its empty glass under its arm, raised hands to clap, then paused, hesitant

to become conspicuous in this indifferent chamber.

Miles was all for being inconspicuous. "Perhaps you can speak to her," he suggested by way of an

alternative.

"You think?" Brightening, Thorne tripped forward, swinging down to abandon the glass on the

nearest handy floor and raising splayed hands against the sparkling bubble. The hermaphrodite mustered

an entranced, ingratiating smile. "Uh . . ." Thorne's chest rose and fell.

Good God, Bel, tongue-tied? Never thought I'd see it. "Ask her what she calls that thing she plays,"

Miles supplied helpfully.

The four-armed woman tilted her head curiously, and starfished gracefully over her boxy instrument

to hover politely before Thorne on the other side of the glittering barrier. "Yes?"

"What do you call that extraordinary instrument?" Thorne asked.

"It's a double-sided hammer dulcimer, ma'am?sir . . ." her servant-to-guest dull tone faltered a

moment, fearing to give insult, "Officer."

"Captain Bel Thorne," Bel supplied instantly, beginning to recover accustomed smooth equilibrium.

"Commanding the Dendarii fast cruiser Ariel. At your service. How ever did you come to be here?"

"I had worked my way to Earth. I was seeking employment, and Baron Fell hired me." She tossed her

head, as if to deflect some implied criticism, though Bel had offered none.

"You are a true quaddie?"

"You've heard of my people?" Her dark brows rose in surprise. "Most people I encounter here think I

am a manufactured freak." A little sardonic bitterness edged her voice.

Thorne cleared its throat. "I'm Betan, myself. I've followed the history of the early genetics explosion

with a rather more personal interest." Thorne cleared its throat again, "Betan hermaphrodite, you see,"

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and waited anxiously for the reaction.

Damn. Bel never waited for reactions, Bel sailed on and let the chips fall anyhow. I wouldn't interfere

with this for all the world. Miles faded back slightly, rubbing his lips to wipe off a twitching grin as all

Thorne's most masculine mannerisms reasserted themselves from spine to fingertips and outward into

the aether.

Her head tilted in interest. One upper hand rose to rest on the sparkling barrier not far from Bel's.

"Are you? You're a genetic too, then."

"Oh, yes. And tell me, what's your name?"

"Nicol."

"Nicol. Is that all? I mean, it's lovely."

"My people don't use surnames."

"Ah. And, uh, what are you doing after the party?"

At this point, alas, interference found them. "Heads up, Captain," Miles murmured. Thorne drew up

instantly, cool and correct, and followed Miles's gaze. The quaddie floated back from the force barrier

and bowed her head over her hands held palm-to-palm and palm-to-palm as a man approached. Miles

too came to a polite species of attention.

Georish Stauber, Baron Fell, was a surprisingly old man to have succeeded so recently to his

position, Miles thought. In the flesh he looked older than the holovid Miles had viewed of him at his

own mission briefing. The baron was balding, with a white fringe of hair around his shiny pate, jovial

and fat. He looked like somebody's grandfather. Not Miles's; Miles's grandfather had been lean and

predatory even in his great age. And the old Count's title had been as real as such things got, not the

courtesy-nobility of a Syndicate survivor. Jolly red cheeks or no, Miles reminded himself, Baron Fell

had climbed a pile of bodies to attain this high place.

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

Miles swept him an aristocratic bow. Thorne somewhat awkwardly followed suit. Ah. He must copy

that awkwardness next time. Of such little details were cover identities made. And blown.

"Have my people been taking care of your needs?"

"Thank you, yes." So far the proper businessmen.

"So glad to meet you at last," the baron rumbled on. "We've heard a great deal about you here."

"Have you," said Miles encouragingly. The baron's eyes were strangely avid. Quite a glad-hand for a

little tin-pot mercenary, eh? This was a little more stroke than was reasonable even for a high-ticket

customer. Miles banished all hint of wariness from his return smile. Patience. Let the challenge emerge,

don't rush to meet what you cannot yet see. "Good things, I hope."

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

Hell, hell, what kind of bait was this? Was the baron hinting that he actually knew "Admiral

Naismith's" real identity? This could be sudden and serious trouble. No?fear outran its cause. Wait.

Forget that such a person as Lieutenant Lord Vorkosigan, Barrayaran Imperial Security, ever existed in

this body. It's not big enough for the two of us anyway, boy. Yet why was this fat shark smiling so

ingratiatingly? Miles cocked his head, neutrally.

"The story of your fleet's success at Vervain reached us even here. So unfortunate about its former

commander."

Miles stiffened. "I regret Admiral Oser's death."

The baron shrugged philosophically. "Such things happen in the business. Only one can command."

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"He could have been an outstanding subordinate."

"Pride is so dangerous," smiled the baron.

Indeed. Miles bit his tongue. So he thinks I "arranged" Oser's death. So let him. That there was one

less mercenary than there appeared in this room, that the Dendarii were now through Miles an arm of the

Barrayaran Imperial Service so covert most of them didn't even know it themselves . . . it would be a

dull Syndicate baron who couldn't find profit in those secrets somewhere. Miles matched the baron's

smile and added nothing.

"You interest me exceedingly," continued the baron. "For example, there's the puzzle of your

apparent age. And your prior military career."

If Miles had kept his drink, he'd have knocked it back in one gulp right then. He clasped his hands

convulsively behind his back instead. Dammit, the pain lines just didn't age his face enough. If the baron

was indeed seeing right through the pseudo-mercenary to the twenty-three-year-old Security lieutenant?

and yet, he usually carried it off?

The baron lowered his voice. "Do the rumors run equally true about your Betan rejuvenation

treatment?"

So that's what he was on about. Miles felt faint with relief. "What interest could you have in such

treatments, my lord?" he gibbered lightly. "I thought Jackson's Whole was the home of practical

immortality. It's said there are some here on their third cloned body."

"I am not one of them," said the baron rather regretfully.

Miles's brows rose in genuine surprise. Surely this man didn't spurn the process as murder. "Some

unfortunate medical impediment?" he said, injecting polite sympathy into his voice. "My regrets, sir."

"In a manner of speaking." The baron's smile revealed a sharp edge. "The brain transplant operation

itself kills a certain irreducible percentage of patients?"

Yeah, thought Miles, starting with 100% of the clones, whose brains are flushed to make room. . . .

"?another percentage suffer varying sorts of permanent damage. Those are the risks anyone must take

for the reward."

"But the reward is so great."

"But then there are a certain number of patients, indistinguishable from the first group, who do not

die on the operating table by accident. If their enemies have the subtlety and clout to arrange it. I have a

number of enemies, Admiral Naismith."

Miles made a little who-would-think-it gesture, flipping up one hand, and continued to cultivate an

air of deep interest.

"I calculate my present chances of surviving a brain transplant to be rather worse than the average,"

the baron went on. "So I've an interest in alternatives." He paused expectantly.

"Oh," said Miles. Oh, indeed. He regarded his fingernails and thought fast. "It's true, I once

participated in an . . . unauthorized experiment. A premature one, as it happens, pushed too eagerly from

animal to human subjects. It was not successful."

"No?" said the baron. "You appear in good health."

Miles shrugged. "Yes, there was some benefit to muscles, skin tone, hair. But my bones are the bones

of an old man, fragile." True. "Subject to acute osteo-inflammatory attacks?there are days when I can't

walk without medication." Also true, dammit. A recent and unsettling medical development. "My life

expectancy is not considered good." For example, if certain parties here ever figure out who "Admiral

Naismith" really is, it could go down to as little as fifteen minutes. "So unless you're extremely fond of

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pain and think you would enjoy being crippled, I fear I must dis-recommend the procedure."

The baron looked him up and down. Disappointment pulled down his mouth. "I see."

Bel Thorne, who knew quite well there was no such thing as the fabled "Betan rejuvenation

treatment," was listening with well-concealed enjoyment and doing an excellent job of keeping the

smirk off its face. Bless its little black heart.

"Still," said the baron, "your . . . scientific acquaintance may have made some progress in the

intervening years."

"I fear not," said Miles. "He died." He spread his hands helplessly. "Old age."

"Oh." The baron's shoulders sagged slightly.

"Ah, there you are, Fell," a new voice cut across them. The baron straightened and turned.

The man who had hailed him was as conservatively dressed as Fell, and flanked by a silent servant

with "bodyguard" written all over him. The bodyguard wore a uniform, a high-necked red silk tunic and

loose black trousers, and was unarmed. Everyone on Fell Station went unarmed except Fell's men; the

place had the most strictly-enforced weapons regs Miles had ever encountered. But the pattern of

calluses on the lean bodyguard's hands suggested he might not need weapons. His eyes flickered and his

hands shook just slightly, a hyper-alertness induced by artificial aids?if ordered, he could strike with

blinding speed and adrenalin-insane strength. He would also retire young, metabolically crippled for the

rest of his short life.

The man he guarded was also young?some great lord's son? Miles wondered. He had long shining

black hair dressed in an elaborate braid, smooth dark olive skin, and a high-bridged nose. He couldn't be

older than Miles's real age, yet he moved with a mature assurance.

"Ryoval," Baron Fell nodded in return, as a man to an equal, not a junior. Still playing the genial

host, Fell added, "Officers, may I introduce Baron Ryoval of House Ryoval. Admiral Naismith, Captain

Thorne. They belong to the Illyrican-built mercenary fast cruiser in dock, Ry, that you may have

noticed."

"Haven't got your eye for hardware, I'm afraid, Georish." Baron Ryoval bestowed a nod upon them,

of a man being polite to his social inferiors for the principle of it. Miles bowed clumsily in return.

Dropping Miles from his attention with an almost audible thump, Ryoval stood back with his hands

on his hips and regarded the null-gee bubble's inhabitant. "My agent didn't exaggerate her charms."

Fell smiled sourly. Nicol had withdrawn?recoiled?when Ryoval first approached, and now floated

behind her instrument, fussing with its tuning. Pretending to be fussing with its tuning. Her eyes glanced

warily at Ryoval, then returned to her dulcimer as if it might put some magic wall between them.

"Can you have her play?" Ryoval began, and was interrupted by a chime from his wrist comm.

"Excuse me, Georish." Looking slightly annoyed, he turned half-away from them and spoke into it.

"Ryoval. And this had better be important."

"Yes, m'lord," a thin voice responded. "This is Manager Deem in Sales and Demonstrations. We have

a problem. That creature House Bharaputra sold us has savaged a customer."

Ryoval's Greek-statue lips rippled in a silent snarl. "I told you to chain it with duralloy."

"We did, my lord. The chains held, but it tore the bolts right out of the wall."

"Stun it."

"We have."

"Then punish it suitably when it awakes. A sufficiently long period without food should dull its

aggression?its metabolism is unbelievable."

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"What about the customer?"

"Give him whatever comforts he asks for. On the House."

"I . . . don't think he'll be in shape to appreciate them for quite some time. He's in the clinic now. Still

unconscious."

Ryoval hissed. "Put my personal physician on his case. I'll take care of the rest when I get back

downside, in about six hours. Ryoval out." He snapped the link closed. "Morons," he growled. He took a

controlled, meditative breath, and recalled his social manner as if booting it up out of some stored

memory bank. "Pardon the interruption, please, Georish."

Fell waved an understanding hand, as if to say, Business.

"As I was saying, can you have her play something?" Ryoval nodded to the quaddie.

Fell clasped his hands behind his back, his eyes glinting in a falsely benign smile. "Play something,

Nicol."

She gave him an acknowledging nod, positioned herself, and closed her eyes. The frozen worry

tensing her face gradually gave way to an inner stillness, and she began to play, a slow, sweet theme that

established itself, rolled over, and began to quicken.

"Enough!" Ryoval flung up a hand. "She's precisely as described."

Nicol stumbled to a halt in mid-phrase. She inhaled through pinched nostrils, clearly disturbed by her

inability to drive the piece through to its destined finish, the frustration of artistic incompletion. She

stuck her hammers into their holders on the side of the instrument with short, savage jerks, and crossed

her upper and lower arms both. Thorne's mouth tightened, and it crossed its arms in unconscious echo.

Miles bit his lip uneasily.

"My agent conveyed the truth," Ryoval went on.

"Then perhaps your agent also conveyed my regrets," said Fell dryly.

"He did. But he wasn't authorized to offer more than a certain standard ceiling. For something so

unique, there's no substitute for direct contact."

"I happen to be enjoying her skills where they are," said Fell. "At my age, enjoyment is much harder

to obtain than money."

"So true. Yet other enjoyments might be substituted. I could arrange something quite special. Not in

the catalog."

"Her musical skills, Ryoval. Which are more than special. They are unique. Genuine. Not artificially

augmented in any way. Not to be duplicated in your laboratories."

"My laboratories can duplicate anything sir." Ryoval smiled at the implied challenge.

"Except originality. By definition."

Ryoval spread his hands in polite acknowledgment of the philosophical point. Fell, Miles gathered,

was not just enjoying the quaddie's musical talent, he was vastly enjoying the possession of something

his rival keenly wanted to buy, that he had absolutely no need to sell. One-upsmanship was a powerful

pleasure. It seemed even the famous Ryoval was having a tough time coming up with a better?and yet, if

Ryoval could find Fell's price, what force on Jackson's Whole could save Nicol? Miles suddenly realized

he knew what Fell's price could be. Would Ryoval figure it out too?

Ryoval pursed his lips. "Let's discuss a tissue sample, then. It would do her no damage, and you

could continue to enjoy her unique services uninterrupted."

"It would damage her uniqueness. Circulating counterfeits always brings down the value of the real

thing, you know that, Ry," grinned Baron Fell.

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"Not for some time," Ryoval pointed out. "The lead time for a mature clone is at least ten years?ah,

but you know that." He reddened and made a little apologetic bow, as if he realized he'd just committed

some faux pas.

By the thinning of Fell's lips, he had. "Indeed," said Fell coldly.

At this point Bel Thorne, tracking the interplay, interrupted in hot horror, "You can't sell her tissues!

You don't own them. She's not some Jackson's Whole construct, she's a freeborn galactic citizen!"

Both barons turned to Bel as if the mercenary were a piece of furniture that had suddenly spoken. Out

of turn. Miles winced.

"He can sell her contract," said Ryoval, mustering a glassy tolerance. "Which is what we are

discussing. A private discussion."

Bel ignored the hint. "On Jackson's Whole, what practical difference does it make if you call it a

contract or call it flesh?"

Ryoval smiled a little cool smile. "None whatsoever. Possession is rather more than nine points of the

law, here."

"It's totally illegal!"

"Legal, my dear?ah?you are Betan, aren't you? That explains it," said Ryoval. "And illegal, is

whatever the planet you are on chooses to call so and is able to enforce. I don't see any Betan enforcers

around here to impose their peculiar version of morality on us all, do you, Fell?"

Fell was listening with raised brows, caught between amusement and annoyance.

Bel twitched. "So if I were to pull out a weapon and blow your head off, it would be perfectly legal?"

The bodyguard tensed, balance and center-of-gravity flowing into launch position.

"Quash it, Bel," Miles muttered under his breath.

But Ryoval was beginning to enjoy baiting his Betan interruptor. "You have no weapon. But legality

aside, my subordinates have instructions to avenge me. It is, as it were, a natural or virtual law. In effect

you'd find such an ill-advised impulse to be illegal indeed."

Baron Fell caught Miles's eye and tilted his head just slightly. Time to intervene. "Time to move on,

Captain," Miles said. "We aren't the baron's only guests here."

"Try the hot buffet," suggested Fell affably.

Ryoval pointedly dropped Bel from his attention and turned to Miles. "Do stop by my establishment

if you get downside, Admiral. Even a Betan could stand to expand the horizons of his experience. I'm

sure my staff could find something of interest in your price range."

"Not any more," said Miles. "Baron Fell already has our credit chit."

"Ah, too bad. Your next trip, perhaps." Ryoval turned away in easy dismissal.

Bel didn't budge. "You can't sell a galactic citizen down there," gesturing jerkily to the curve of the

planet beyond the viewport. The quaddie Nicol, watching from behind her dulcimer, had no expression

at all upon her face, but her intense blue eyes blazed.

Ryoval turned back, feigning sudden surprise. "Why, Captain, I just realized. Betan?you must be a

genuine genetic hermaphrodite. You possess a marketable rarity yourself. I can offer you an eye-opening

employment experience at easily twice your current rate of pay. And you wouldn't even have to get shot

at. I guarantee you'd be extremely popular. Group rates."

Miles swore he could see Thorne's blood pressure skyrocketing as the meaning of what Ryoval had

just said sunk in. The hermaphrodite's face darkened, and it drew breath. Miles reached up and grasped

Bel by the shoulder, hard. The breath held.

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