 |
 |
|
|
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] 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, Page 68 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html 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. Miles spent a few more minutes failing to find anything exciting on the vid logs, then Bel returned. Miles shut down the vid. I think I'd like a look at that funny Betan's cargo. Can't help you there, said Bel. I don't have the codes to the freight lockers. Only the passengers are supposed to have the access to the space they rent, by contract, and the quaddies haven't bothered to get a court order to make them disgorge 'em. Decreases Graf Station's liability for theft while the passengers aren't aboard, y'see. You'll have to get Dubauer to let you in. Dear Bel, I am an Imperial Auditor, and this is not only a Barrayaran-registered ship, it belongs to Empress Laisa's own family. I go where I will. Solian has to have a security override for every cranny of this ship. Roic? Right here, m'lord. The armsman tapped his notation device. Very well, then, let's take a walk. Bel and Roic followed him down the corridor and through the central lock to the adjoining freight section. The double-door to the second chamber down yielded to Roic's careful tapping on its lock pad. Miles poked his head through and brought up the lights. It was an impressive sight. Gleaming replicator racks stood packed in tight rows, filling the space and leaving only narrow aisles between. Each rack sat bolted on its own float pallet, in four layers of five units - twenty to a rack, as high as Roic was tall. Beneath darkened display readouts on each, control panels twinkled with reassuringly green lights. For now. Miles walked down the aisle formed by five pallets, around the end, and up the next, counting. More pallets lined the walls. Bel's estimate of a thousand seemed exactly right. You'd think the placental chambers would be a larger size. These seem nearly identical to the ones at home. With which he'd grown intimately familiar, of late. Page 69 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html These arrays were clearly meant for mass production. All twenty units stacked on a pallet economically shared reservoirs, pumps, filtration devices, and the control panel. He leaned closer. I don't see a maker's mark. Or serial numbers or anything else that would reveal the planet of origin for what were clearly very finely made machines. He tapped a control to bring the monitor screen to life. The glowing screen didn't contain manufacturing data or serial numbers either. Just a stylized scarlet screaming-bird pattern on a silver background.... His heart began to lump. What the hell was this doing here ... ? Miles, said Bel's voice, seeming to come from a long way off, if you're going to pass out, put your head down. Between my knees, choked Miles, and kiss my ass good-bye. Bel, do you know what that sigil is ? No, said Bel, in a leery now-what? tone. Cetagandan Star Creche. Not the military ghem-lords, not their cultivated - and I mean that in both senses - masters, the haut lords - not even the Imperial Celestial Garden. Higher still. The Star Creche is the innermost core of the innermost ring of the whole damned giant genetic engineering project that is the Cetagandan Empire. The haut ladies' own gene bank. They design their emperors, there. Hell, they design the whole haut race, there. The haut ladies don't work in animal genes. They think it would be beneath them. They leave that to the ghem-ladies. Not, note, to the ghem-lords... [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] |