Miles made copies of everything that seemed even vaguely pertinent, for further examination, then he and Roic paid a visit to Solian's cabin, just a few meters down the same corridor. It too was small and spare and unrevealing. No telling what personal items Solian might have packed in the missing valise, but there certainly weren't many left. The ship had left Komarr, what, six weeks ago? With half a dozen ports of call between. When the ship was in-port was the busiest time for its security; perhaps Solian hadn't had much time to shop for souvenirs.
Miles tried to make sense of what was left. Half a dozen uniforms, a few civvies, a bulky jacket, some shoes and boots . . . Solian's personally fitted pressure suit. That seemed an expensive item one might want for a long sojourn in Quaddiespace. Not very anonymous, though, with its Barrayaran military markings.
Finding nothing in the cabin to relieve them of the chore of examining vid records, Miles and Roic returned to Solian's office and began. If nothing else, Miles encouraged himself, reviewing the security vids would give him a mental picture of the potential dramatis personae . . . buried somewhere in the mob of persons who had nothing to do with anything, to be sure. Looking at everything was a sure sign that he didn't know what the hell he was doing yet, but it was the only way he'd ever found to smoke out the nonobvious clue that everyone else had overlooked. . . .
He glanced up, after a time, at a movement in the office door. Bel had returned, and leaned against the jamb.
“Finding anything yet?” the herm asked.
“Not so far.” Miles paused the vid display. “Did your Betan friend get its problems taken care of?”
“Still working. Feeding the critters and shoveling manure, or at least, adding nutrient concentrate to the replicator reservoirs and removing the waste bags from the filtration units. I can see why Dubauer was upset at the delay. There must be a thousand animal fetuses in that hold. Major financial loss, if it becomes a loss.”
“Huh. Most animal husbandry people ship frozen embryos,” said Miles. “That's the way my grandfather used to import his fancy horse bloodstock from Earth. Implanted 'em in a grade mare upon arrival, to finish cooking. Cheaper, lighter, less maintenance—shipping delays not an issue, if it comes to that. Although I suppose this way uses the travel time for gestation.”
“Dubauer did say time was of the essence.” Bel hitched its shoulders, frowning uncomfortably. “What do the Idris 's logs have to say about Dubauer and its cargo, anyway?”
Miles called up the records. “Boarded when the fleet first assembled in Komarr orbit. Bound for Xerxes—the next stop after Graf Station, which must make this mess especially frustrating. Reservation made about . . . six weeks before the fleet departed, via a Komarran shipping agent.” A legitimate company; Miles recognized the name. This record did not indicate where Dubauer-and-cargo had originated, nor if the herm had intended to connect with another commercial—or private—carrier at Xerxes for some further ultimate destination. He eyed Bel shrewdly. “Something got your hackles up?”
“I . . . don't know. There's something funny about Dubauer.”
“In what way? Would I get the joke?”
“If I could say, it wouldn't bother me so much.”
“It seems a fussy old herm . . . maybe something on the academic side?” University, or former university, bioengineering research and development would fit the oddly precise and polite style. So would personal shyness.
“That might account for it,” said Bel, in an unconvinced tone.
“Funny. Right.” Miles made a note to especially observe the herm's movements on and off the Idris , in his records search.
Bel, watching him, remarked, “Greenlaw was secretly impressed with you, by the way.”
“Oh, yeah? She's certainly managed to keep it a secret from me.”
Bel's grin sparked. “She told me you appeared very task oriented . That's a compliment, in Quaddiespace. I didn't explain to her that you considered getting shot at to be a normal part of your daily routine.”
“Well, not daily . By preference.” Miles grimaced. “Nor normally, in the new job. I'm supposed to be rear echelon, now. I'm getting old, Bel.”
The grin twisted half-up in sardonic amusement. “Speaking from the vantage of one not quite twice your age, and in your fine old Barrayaran phrase of yore, horseshit, Miles.”
Miles shrugged. “Maybe it's the impending fatherhood.”
“Got you spooked, does it?” Bel's brows rose.
“No, of course not. Or—well, yes, but not in that way. My father was . . . I have a lot to live up to. And perhaps even a few things to do differently.”
Bel tilted its head, but before it could speak again, footsteps sounded down the corridor. Dubauer's light, cultured voice inquired, “Portmaster Thorne? Ah, there you are.”
Bel moved within as the tall herm appeared in the doorway. Miles noted Roic's appraising eye flick, before the bodyguard pretended to return his attention to the vid display.
Dubauer pulled on its fingers anxiously and asked Bel, “Are you returning to the hostel soon?”
“No. That is, I'm not returning to the hostel at all.”
“Oh. Ah.” The herm hesitated. “You see, with strange quaddies flying around out there shooting at people, I didn't really want to go out on the station alone. Has anyone heard—he hasn't been apprehended yet, has he? No? I was hoping . . . can anyone go with me?”
Bel smiled sympathetically at this display of frazzled nerves. “I'll send one of the security guards with you. That all right?”
“I should be extremely grateful, yes.”
“Are you all finished, now?”
Dubauer bit its lip. “Well, yes and no. That is, I have finished servicing my replicators, and done what little I can to slow the growth and metabolism of their contents. But if my cargo is to be held here very much longer, there'll not be time to get to my final destination before my creatures outgrow their containers. If I indeed have to destroy them, it will be a disastrous event.”
“The Komarran fleet's insurance ought to make good on that, I'd think,” said Bel.
“Or you could sue Graf Station,” Miles suggested. “Better yet, do both, and collect twice.” Bel spared him an exasperated glance.
Dubauer managed a pained smile. “That only addresses the immediate financial loss.” After a longer pause, the herm continued, “To salvage the more important part, the proprietary bioengineering, I wish to take tissue samples and freeze them before disposal. I shall also require some equipment for complete biomatter breakdown. Or access to the ship's converters, if they won't become overloaded with the mass I must destroy. It's going to be a time-consuming and, I fear, extremely messy task. I was wondering, Portmaster Thorne—if you cannot obtain my cargo's release from quaddie impoundment, can you at least get me permission to stay aboard the Idris while I undertake its dispatch?”
Bel's brow wrinkled at the horrific picture the herm's soft words conjured. “Let's hope you're not forced to such extreme measures. How much time do you have, really?”
The herm hesitated. “Not very much more. And if I must dispose of my creatures—the sooner, the better. I'd prefer to get it over with.”
“Understandable.” Bel blew out its breath.
“There might be some alternate possibilities to stretch your time window,” said Miles. “Hiring a smaller, faster ship to take you directly to your destination, for example.”
The herm shook its head sadly. “And who would pay for this ship, my Lord Vorkosigan? The Barrayaran Imperium?”
Miles bit his tongue on either Yeah, sure! or alternate suggestions involving Greenlaw and the Union. He was supposed to be handling the big picture, not getting bogged down in all the human—or inhumane—details. He made a neutral gesture and let Bel shepherd the Betan out.