Miles, Mystery & Mayhem - Lois McMaster Bujold [3]
Outnumbered now as the pilot joined the fray, the intruder retreated, tumbling back out the flex tube and thumping to whatever docking bay deck lay beyond. Miles scrambled after Ivan's hot pursuit just in time to see the intruder, now firmly on his feet in the station's artificial gravity field, land Ivan a blow to his chest with a booted foot that knocked the younger man backward into the portal again. By the time Miles and Ivan had disentangled themselves, and Ivan's gasping became less alarmingly disrupted, the old man had vanished at a run. His footsteps echoed confusingly in the bay. Which exit—? The pod pilot, after a quick look to ensure that his passengers were temporarily safe, hurried back inside to answer his com alarm.
Ivan regained his feet, dusted himself off, and stared around. Miles did too. They were in a small, dingy, dimly lit freight bay.
"Y'know," said Ivan, "if that was the customs inspector, we're in trouble."
"I thought he was about to draw on us," said Miles. "It looked like it."
"You didn't see a weapon before you yelled."
"It wasn't the weapon. It was his eyes. He looked like someone about to try something that scared him to death. And he did draw."
"After we jumped him. Who knows what he was about to do?"
Miles turned slowly on his heel, taking in their surroundings in more detail. There wasn't a human being in sight, Cetagandan, Barrayaran, or other. "There's something very wrong here. Either he wasn't in the right place, or we weren't. This musty dump can't be our docking port, can it? I mean, where's the Barrayaran ambassador? The honor guard?"
"The red carpet, the dancing girls?" Ivan sighed. "You know, if he'd been trying to assassinate you, or hijack the pod, he should have come charging in with that nerve disruptor already in his hand."
"That was no customs inspector. Look at the monitors." Miles pointed. Two vid-pickups mounted strategically on nearby walls were ripped from their moorings, dangling sadly down. "He disabled them before he tried to board. I don't understand. Station security should be swarming in here right now. . . . D'you think he wanted the pod, and not us?"
"You, boy. No one would be after me."
"He seemed more scared of us than we were of him." Miles concealed a deep breath, hoping his heart rate would slow.
"Speak for yourself," said Ivan. "He sure scared me."
"Are you all right?" asked Miles belatedly. "I mean, no broken ribs or anything?"
"Oh, yeah, I'll survive . . . you?"
"I'm all right."
Ivan glanced down at the nerve disruptor in Miles's right hand, and the rod in his left, and wrinkled his nose. "How'd you end up with all the weapons?"
"I . . . don't quite know." Miles slipped the little nerve disruptor into his own trouser pocket, and held the mysterious rod up to the light. "I thought at first this was some kind of shock-stick, but it's not. It's something electronic, but I sure don't recognize the design."
"A grenade," Ivan suggested. "A time-bomb. They can make them look like anything, y'know."
"I don't think so—"
"My lords," the pod pilot stuck his head through the hatch. "Station flight control is ordering us not to dock here. They're telling us to stand off and wait clearance. Immediately."
"I thought we must be in the wrong place," said Ivan.
"It's the coordinates they gave me, my lord," said the pod pilot a little stiffly.
"Not your error, Sergeant, I'm sure," Miles soothed.
"Flight control sounds very forceful." The sergeant's face was tense. "Please, my lords."
Obediently, Miles and Ivan shuffled back aboard the pod. Miles refastened his seat straps automatically, his mind running on overdrive, trying to construct an explanation for their bizarre welcome to Cetaganda.
"This section of the station