Miles, Mutants, and Microbes

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  "Together, these seven complexes represent tens of thousands of hours of research time, mostly mine, some of others—my life's work. I'd planned from the beginning to take them with me. I bundled them up in a viral insert and placed them, bound and dormant, in a live . . ." Canaba faltered, "organism, for storage. An organism, I thought, that no one would think to look at for such a thing."

  "Why didn't you just store them in your own tissue?" Miles asked irritably. "Then you couldn't lose 'em."

  Canaba's mouth opened. "I . . . never thought of that. How elegant. Why didn't I think of that?" His hand touched his forehead wonderingly, as if probing for systems failure. His lips tightened again. "But it would have made no difference. I would still need to . . ." he fell silent. "It's about the organism," he said at last. "The . . . creature." Another long silence.

  "Of all the things I did," Canaba continued lowly, "of all the interruptions this vile place imposed on me, there is one I regret the most. You understand, this was years ago. I was younger, I thought I still had a future to protect. And it wasn't all my doing—guilt by committee, eh? Spread it around, make it easy, say it was his fault, her doing . . . well, it's mine now."

  You mean it's mine now, thought Miles grimly. "Doctor, the more time we spend here, the greater the chance of compromising this operation. Please get to the point."

  "Yes . . . yes. Well, a number of years ago, House Bharaputra Laboratories took on a contract to manufacture a . . . new species. Made to order."

  "I thought it was House Ryoval that was famous for making people, or whatever, to order," said Miles.

  "They make slaves, one-off. They are very specialized. And small—their customer base is surprisingly small. There are many rich men, and there are, I suppose, many depraved men, but a House Ryoval customer has to be a member of both sets, and the overlap isn't as large as you'd think. Anyway, our contract was supposed to lead to a major production run, far beyond Ryoval's capabilities. A certain sub-planetary government, hard-pressed by its neighbors, wanted us to engineer a race of super-soldiers for them."

  "What, again?" said Miles. "I thought that had been tried. More than once."

  "This time, we thought we could do it. Or at least, the Bharaputran hierarchy was willing to take their money. But the project suffered from too much input. The client, our own higher-ups, the genetics project members, everybody had ideas they were pushing. I swear it was doomed before it ever got out of the design committee."

  "A super-soldier. Designed by committee. Ye gods. The mind boggles." Miles's eyes were wide in fascination. "So then what happened?"

  "It seemed to . . . several of us, that the physical limits of the merely human had already been reached. Once a, say, muscle system has been brought to perfect health, stimulated with maximum hormones, exercised to a certain limit, that's all you can do. So we turned to other species for special improvements. I, for instance, became fascinated by the aerobic and anaerobic metabolism in the muscles of the thoroughbred horse—"

  "What?" said Thorne, shocked.

  "There were other ideas. Too many. I swear, they weren't all mine."

  "You mixed human and animal genes?" breathed Miles.

  "Why not? Human genes have been spliced into animals from the crude beginnings—it was almost the first thing they tried. Human insulin from bacteria and the like. But till now, no one dared do it in reverse. I broke the barrier, cracked the codes . . . It looked good at first. It was only when the first ones reached puberty that all the errors became fully apparent. Well, it was only the initial trial. They were meant to be formidable. But they ended up monstrous."

  "Tell me," Miles choked, "were there any actual combat-experienced soldiers on the committee?"

  "I assume the client had them. They supplied the parameters," said Canaba.

  Said Thorne in a suffused voice, "I see. They were trying to re-invent the enlisted man."

  Miles shot Thorne a quelling glower, and tapped his chrono. "Don't let us interrupt, doctor."

  There was a short silence. Canaba began again. "We ran off ten prototypes. Then the client . . . went out of business. They lost their war—"

  "Why am I not surprised?" Miles muttered under his breath.

  "—funding was cut off, the project was dropped before we could apply what we had learned from our mistakes. Of the ten prototypes, nine have since died. There was one left. We were keeping it at the labs due to . . . difficulties, in boarding it out. I placed my gene complexes in it. They are there still. The last thing I meant to do before I left was kill it. A mercy . . . a responsibility. My expiation, if you will."

  "And then?" prodded Miles.

  "A few days ago, it was suddenly sold to House Ryoval. As a novelty, apparently. Baron Ryoval collects oddities of all sorts, for his tissue banks—"

  Miles and Bel exchanged a look.

  "—I had no idea it was to be sold. I came in in the morning and it was gone. I don't think Ryoval has any idea of its real value. It's there now, as far as I know, at Ryoval's facilities."

  Miles decided he was getting a sinus headache. From the cold, no doubt. "And what, pray, d'you want us soldiers to do about it?"

  "Get in there, somehow. Kill it. Collect a tissue sample. Only then will I go with you."

  And stomach twinges. "What, both ears and the tail?"

  Canaba gave Miles a cold look. "The left gastrocnemius muscle. That's where I injected my complexes. These storage viruses aren't virulent, they won't have migrated far. The greatest concentration should still be there."

  "I see." Miles rubbed his temples, and pressed his eyes. "All right. We'll take care of it. This personal contact between us is very dangerous, and I'd rather not repeat it. Plan to report to my ship in forty-eight hours. Will we have any trouble recognizing your critter?"

  "I don't think so. This particular specimen topped out at just over eight feet. I . . . want you to know, the fangs were not my idea."

  "I . . . see."

  "It can move very fast, if it's still in good health. Is there any help I can give you? I have access to painless poisons . . ."

  "You've done enough, thank you. Please leave it to us professionals, eh?"

  "It would be best if its body can be destroyed entirely. No cells remaining. If you can."

  "That's why plasma arcs were invented. You'd best be on your way."

  "Yes." Canaba hesitated. "Admiral Naismith?"

  "Yes. . . ."

  "I . . . it might also be best if my future employer didn't learn about this. They have intense military interests. It might excite them unduly."

  "Oh," said Miles/Admiral Naismith/Lieutenant Lord Vorkosigan of the Barrayaran Imperial Service, "I don't think you have to worry about that."

  "Is forty-eight hours enough for your commando raid?" Canaba worried. "You understand, if you don't get the tissue, I'll go right back downside. I will not be trapped aboard your ship."

  "You will be happy. It's in my contract," said Miles. "Now you'd better get gone."

  "I must rely on you, sir." Canaba nodded in suppressed anguish, and withdrew.

  They waited a few minutes in the cold room, to let Canaba put some distance between them. The building creaked in the wind; from an upper corridor echoed an odd shriek, and later, a laugh abruptly cut off. The guard shadowing Canaba returned. "He made it to his groundcar all right, sir."

  "Well," said Thorne, "I suppose we'll need to get hold of a plan of Ryoval's facilities, first—"

  "I think not," said Miles.

  "If we're to raid—"

  "Raid, hell. I'm not risking my men on anything so idiotic. I said I'd slay his sin for him. I didn't say how."

  The commercial comconsole net at the downside shuttleport seemed as convenient as anything. Miles slid into the booth and fed the machine his credit card while Thorne lurked just outside the viewing angle and the guards, outside, guarded. He encoded the call.

  In a moment, the vid plate produced the image of a sweet-faced receptionist
with dimples and a white fur crest instead of hair. "House Ryoval, Customer Services. How may I help you, sir?"

  "I'd like to speak to Manager Deem, in Sales and Demonstrations," said Miles smoothly, "about a possible purchase for my organization."

  "Who may I say is calling?"

  "Admiral Miles Naismith, Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet."

  "One moment, sir."

  "You really think they'll just sell it?" Bel muttered from the side as the girl's face was replaced by a flowing pattern of colored lights and some syrupy music.

  "Remember what we overheard yesterday?" said Miles. "I'm betting it's on sale. Cheap." He must try not to look too interested.

  In a remarkably short time, the colored glop gave way to the face of an astonishingly beautiful young man, a blue-eyed albino in a red silk shirt. He had a huge livid bruise up on side of his white face. "This is Manager Deem. May I help you, Admiral?"

  Miles cleared his throat carefully. "A rumor has been brought to my attention that House Ryoval may have recently acquired from House Bharaputra an article of some professional interest to me. Supposedly, it was a prototype of some sort of new improved fighting man. Do you know anything about it?"

  Deem's hand stole to his bruise and palpated it gently, then twitched away. "Indeed, sir, we do have such an article."

  "Is it for sale?"

  "Oh, ye—I mean, I think some arrangement is pending. But it may still be possible to bid on it."

  "Would it be possible for me to inspect it?"

  "Of course," said Deem with suppressed eagerness. "How soon?"

  There was a burst of static, and the vid image split, Deem's face abruptly shrinking to one side. The new face was only too familiar. Bel hissed under its breath.

  "I'll take this call, Deem," said Baron Ryoval.

  "Yes, my lord." Deem's eyes widened in surprise, and he cut out. Ryoval's image swelled to occupy the space available.

  "So, Betan." Ryoval smiled. "It appears I have something you want after all."

  Miles shrugged. "Maybe," he said neutrally. "If it's in my price range."

  "I thought you gave all your money to Fell."

  Miles spread his hands. "A good commander always has hidden reserves. However, the actual value of the item hasn't yet been established. In fact, its existence hasn't even been established."

  "Oh, it exists, all right. And it is . . . impressive. Adding it to my collection was a unique pleasure. I'd hate to give it up. But for you," Ryoval smiled more broadly, "it may be possible to arrange a special cut rate." He chuckled, as at some secret pun that escaped Miles.

  A special cut throat is more like it. "Oh?"

  "I propose a simple trade," said Ryoval. "Flesh for flesh."

  "You may overestimate my interest, Baron."

  Ryoval's eyes glinted. "I don't think so."

  He knows I wouldn't touch him with a stick if it weren't something pretty compelling. So. "Name your proposal, then."

  "I'll trade you even, Bharaputra's pet monster—ah, you should see it, Admiral!—for three tissue samples. Three tissue samples that will, if you are clever about it, cost you nothing." Ryoval held up one finger. "One from your Betan hermaphrodite," a second finger, "one from yourself," a third finger, making a W, "and one from Baron Fell's quaddie musician."

  Over in the corner, Bel Thorne appeared to be suppressing an apoplectic fit. Quietly, fortunately.

  "That third could prove extremely difficult to obtain," said Miles, buying time to think.

  "Less difficult for you than me," said Ryoval. "Fell knows my agents. My overtures have put him on guard. You represent a unique opportunity to get in under that guard. Given sufficient motivation, I'm certain it's not beyond you, mercenary."

  "Given sufficient motivation, very little is beyond me, Baron," said Miles semi-randomly.

  "Well, then. I shall expect to hear from you within—say—twenty-four hours. After that time my offer will be withdrawn." Ryoval nodded cheerfully. "Good day, Admiral." The vid blanked.

  "Well, then," echoed Miles.

  "Well, what?" said Thorne with suspicion. "You're not actually seriously considering that—vile proposal, are you?"

  "What does he want my tissue sample for, for God's sake?" Miles wondered aloud.

  "For his dog and dwarf act, no doubt," said Thorne nastily.

  "Now, now. He'd be dreadfully disappointed when my clone turned out to be six feet tall, I'm afraid." Miles cleared his throat. "It wouldn't actually hurt anyone, I suppose. To take a small tissue sample. Whereas a commando raid risks lives."

  Bel leaned back against the wall and crossed its arms. "Not true. You'd have to fight me for mine. And hers."

  Miles grinned sourly. "So."

  "So?"

  "So let's go find a map of Ryoval's flesh pit. It seems we're going hunting."

  House Ryoval's palatial main biologicals facility wasn't a proper fortress, just some guarded buildings. Some bloody big guarded buildings. Miles stood on the roof of the lift-van and studied the layout through his night-glasses. Fog droplets beaded in his hair. The cold damp wind searched for chinks in his jacket much as he searched for chinks in Ryoval's security.

  The white complex loomed against the dark forested mountainside, its front gardens floodlit and fairy-like in the fog and frost. The utility entrances on the near side looked more promising. Miles nodded slowly to himself and climbed down off the rented lift-van, artistically broke-down on the little mountain side-trail overlooking Ryoval's. He swung into the back, out of the piercing wind.

  "All right, people, listen up." His squad hunkered around as he set up the holovid map in the middle. The colored lights of the display sheened their faces, tall Ensign Murka, Thorne's second-in-command, and two big troopers. Sergeant Laureen Anderson was the van driver, assigned to outside backup along with Trooper Sandy Hereld and Captain Thorne. Miles harbored a secret Barraryan prejudice against taking female troops inside Ryoval's, that he trusted he concealed. It went double for Bel Thorne. Not that one's sex would necessarily make any difference to the adventures that might follow in the event of capture, if even a tenth of the bizarre rumors he'd heard were true. Nevertheless . . . Laureen claimed to be able to fly any vehicle made by man through the eye of a needle, not that Miles figured she'd ever done anything so domestic as thread a needle in her life. She would not question her assignment.

  "Our main problem remains, that we still don't know where exactly in this facility Bharaputra's creature is being kept. So first we penetrate the fence, the outer courts, and the main building, here and here." A red thread of light traced their projected route at Miles's touch on the control board. "Then we quietly pick up an inside employee and fast-penta him. From that point on we're racing time, since we must assume he'll be promptly missed.

  "The key word is quietly. We didn't come here to kill people, and we are not at war with Ryoval's employees. You carry your stunners, and keep those plasma arcs and the rest of the toys packed till we locate our quarry. We dispatch it fast and quietly, I get my sample," his hand touched his jacket, beneath which rested the collection case that would keep the tissue alive till they got back to the Ariel. "Then we fly. If anything goes wrong before I get that very expensive cut of meat, we don't bother to fight our way out. Not worth it. They have peculiar summary ways of dealing with murder charges here, and I don't see the need for any of us to end up as spare parts in Ryoval's tissue banks. We wait for Captain Thorne to arrange a ransom, and then try something else. We hold a lever or two on Ryoval in case of emergencies."

  "Dire emergencies," Bel muttered.

  "If anything goes wrong after the butcher-mission is accomplished, it's back to combat rules. That sample will then be irreplaceable, and must be got back to Captain Thorne at all costs. Laureen, you sure of our emergency pick-up spot?"

  "Yes, sir." She pointed on the vid display.

  "Everybody else got that? Any questions? Suggestions? Last minute observations? Communications check, then,
Captain Thorne."

  Their wrist coms all appeared to be in good working order. Ensign Murka shrugged on the weapons pack. Miles carefully pocketed the blueprint map cube, that had cost them a near-ransom from a certain pliable construction company just a few hours ago. The four members of the penetration team slipped from the van and merged with the frosty darkness.

  They slunk off through the woods. The frozen crunchy layer of plant detritus tended to slide underfoot, exposing a layer of slick mud. Murka spotted a spy eye before it spotted them, and blinded it with a brief burst of microwave static while they scurried past. The useful big guys made short work of boosting Miles over the wall. Miles tried not to think about the ancient pub sport of dwarf tossing. The inner court was stark and utilitarian, loading docks with big locked doors, rubbish collection bays, and a few parked vehicles.