"That would explain this military base having a head geneticist in residence," Ratchet says, looking thoroughly unnerved. "And all the equipment they have stashed around. Hell."

He runs a hand through his hair and squeezes his eyes shut briefly, trying not to think of all the possible reasons a team of military geneticists would have grabbed a bunch of random bystanders, done medical tests on them, and locked them in a box. He shakes his head a little and looks up again.

"What are the Barrayarrans like? Do you know?"