"What?"
"A secret military medical research project—with my father as
project director, no less."
"I never knew he was in research too," said Elena, sounding enormously impressed. "He sure got around."
"That's what's curious. He was a Staff tactician. Never had
anything to do with research, as far as I know." A by-now-familiar code appeared at his next inquiry. "Blast! Another seal. Ask a simple question, get a simple brick wall . . . There's Dr. Vaagen, hand-in-rubber-glove with Father. Vaagen must have been doing the actual
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work, then. That explains that. I want under that seal, damn it . . ." He whistled a soundless tune, staring into space, fingers drumming.
Elena began to look dampened. "You're getting that mulish look,"
she observed nervously. "Maybe we should just let it go. It doesn't really matter by now."
"Illyan's mark's not on this one. It might be enough . . ."
Elena bit her lip. "Look, Miles, it's not really—" But he was already launched. "What are you doing?"
"Trying one of Father's old access codes. I'm pretty sure of it, all but a few digits."
Elena gulped.
"Jackpot!" Miles cried softly, as the screen began disgorging data at last. He read avidly. "So that's where those uterine replicators came from! They brought them back from Escobar, after the invasion
failed. The spoils of war, by God. Seventeen of them, loaded and
working. They must have seemed like really high tech, in their day. I wonder if we looted them?"
Elena paled. "Miles—they weren't doing human experiments or, or anything like that, were they? Surely your father wouldn't have
countenanced . . ."
"I don't know. Dr. Vaagen can be pretty, um, one-track, about his research . . ." Relief eased his voice. "Oh, I see what was going on.
Look here . . ." The holoscreen began scrolling yet another file in midair; he waved his fingers through it. "They were all sent to the Imperial Service Orphanage. They must have been some children of
our men killed at Escobar."
Elena's voice tensed. "Children of men killed at Escobar? But where are their mothers?"
They stared at each other. "But we've never had any women in the Service, except for a few civilian medtechs," began Miles.
Elena's long fingers closed urgently on his shoulder. "Look at the dates."
He scrolled the file again.
"Miles," she hissed.
"Yes, I see it." He stopped the screen. "Female infant released to the custody of Admiral Aral Vorkosigan. Not sent to the orphanage
with the rest."
"The date—Miles, that's my birthday!"
He unpeeled her fingers. "Yes, I know. Don't crush my collarbone, please."
"Could it be me? Is it me?" Her face tightened with hope and dismay.
"I—it's all numbers, you see," he said cautiously. "But there's