Miles, Mystery & Mayhem - Lois McMaster Bujold [149]
"Oxy-CO2 exchange for the Station," Commander Quinn explained in an undertone. "The algae is bioengineered for maximum oxygen generation and CO2 absorption. But of course, it grows. So to save having the chambers down half the time while we, ah, bale hay, the newts—specially bred—crop it for us. But then, naturally, you end up with a lot of newts. . . ."
She broke off as a blue-suited technician shut down a monitor at a control station and turned to frown at them. She waved at him cheerily. "Hi, Dale, remember me? Elli Quinn. Dom told me where to look you up."
His frown flipped to a grin. "Yes, he told me he'd seen you. . ." He advanced as if he might hug her, but settled on bashful handshake instead.
They exchanged small talk while Ethan, unintroduced, tried not to shift about nervously, or open his mouth or act like a downsider. The first two were easy enough, but what was it that marked a downsider in Stationer eyes? He stood by the float pallet and tried desperately to act like nobody at all.
Quinn ended what seemed to Ethan an unnecessarily lengthy digression about the Dendarii Mercenaries with the remark, "And do you know, those poor troops have never tasted fried newt legs!"
The tech's eyes glinted with a humor baffling to Ethan. "What! Can there be a soul in the universe so deprived? No cream of newt soup, either, I suppose?"
"No newt creole," confided Commander Quinn with mock horror. "No newts 'n chips."
"No newt provençal?" chorused the tech. "No newt stew? No newt mousse in aspic? No slither goulash, no newt chowder?"
"Bucket 'o newts is unknown to them," confirmed Quinn. "Newt caviar is a delicacy unheard of."
"No newt nuggets?"
"Newt nuggets?" echoed the commander, looking suddenly really nonplused.
"Latest thing," explained the tech. "They're really boned leg meat, chopped, reformed, and fried."
"Oh," said the mercenary woman. "I'm relieved. For a moment there I was picturing some form of, er, newt organettes."
They both burst into laughter. Ethan swallowed and looked around surreptitiously for some kind, any kind, of basin. A couple of the slick black creatures swam to the barrier and goggled at him.
"Anyway," Quinn went on to the tech, "I thought if you were about due for the culling this shift you might spare me a few, to freeze and take back with me. Assuming you're not short, of course."
"We are never," he groaned, "short of newts. Help yourself. Take a hundred kilos. Take two. Three."
"A hundred would be plenty. All I can afford to ship. Make it a treat for officers only, eh?"
He chuckled, and led her up a ladder to an access port. Ethan skittishly followed her come-along gesture, bringing up the float pallet.
The tech picked his way delicately across a mesh catwalk. Beneath them the waters hissed and rushed in little eddies; a fresh draft from below cooled Ethan's skin and cleared his aching head. He kept one hand on the safety railing. Some of the whirlpools below suggested powerful suction pumpers at work somewhere in the silver-green. Another water chamber was visible beyond this one, and beyond that another, retreating out of sight.
The catwalk widened to a platform. The hiss became a roar as the tech pulled back a cover above an underwater cage. The cage roiled with black and scarlet shapes, slipping and splashing over each other.
"Oh, lord yes," yelled the tech. "Full house. Sure you don't want to feed your whole army?"
"Would if I could," called Quinn back. "Tell you what, though. I'll trot the excess down to Disposal for