Young Miles - Lois McMaster Bujold [230]
She was short, but astonishingly intense, slight figure and white-blond hair cropped close to her head giving her an odd elfin look. Her black jumpsuit seemed shot with electric sparks, flowing over her skin like water, evening-wear in the day-cycle. Thin-heeled black shoes boosted her a few futile centimeters. Her lips were colored blood-carmine to match the shimmering scarf that looped across alabaster collarbones to cascade from each shoulder, framing the bare white skin of her back. She looked . . . expensive.
Her eye caught Miles's fascinated stare. Her chin lifted, and she stared back coldly.
"Victor Rotha?" The voice at Miles's elbow made him jump.
"Ah . . . Mr. Liga?" Miles, wheeling, hazarded in return. Rabbitlike pale features, protruding lip, black hair; this was the man who claimed he wished to improve the armament of his security guards at his asteroid mining facility. Sure. How—and where—had Ungari scraped Liga up? Miles was not sure he wanted to know.
"I've arranged a private room for us to talk." Liga smiled, tilting his head toward a nearby hostel entrance. "Eh," Liga added, "looks like everybody's doing business this morning." He nodded toward the trio across the concourse, who were now a quartet and moving off. The scarves snapped along like banners, floating in the quick-stepping blonde's wake.
"Who was that woman?" asked Miles.
"I don't know," said Liga. "But the man they're following is your main competition here. The agent of House Fell, the Jacksonian armaments specialists."
He looked more like a middle-aged businessman type, at least from the back. "Pol lets the Jacksonians operate here?" Miles asked. "I thought tensions were high."
"Between Pol, Aslund, and Vervain, yes," said Liga. "The Jacksonian consortium is loudly claiming neutrality. They hope to profit from all sides. But this isn't the best place to talk politics. Let's go, eh?"
As Miles expected, Liga settled them in what was obviously an otherwise-unoccupied hostel room, rented for the purpose. Miles began his memorized pitch, working through the hand-weapons, bafflegabbing about available inventory and delivery dates.
"I'd hoped," said Liga, "for something a little more . . . authoritative."
"I have another selection of samples aboard my ship," Miles explained. "I didn't want to trouble Pol customs with them. But I can give you an overview by vid."
Miles trotted out the heavy weapons manuals. "This vid is for educational purposes only, of course, as these weapons are of a grade illegal for a private person to own in Pol local space."
"In Pol space, yes," Liga agreed. "But Pol's law doesn't run in the Hegen Hub. Yet. All you have to do is cast off from Pol Six and take a little run out beyond the ten-thousand-kilometer traffic control limit to conduct any sort of business you want, perfectly legally. The problem comes in delivering the cargo back in to Pol local space."
"Difficult deliveries are one of my specialties," Miles assured him. "For a small surcharge, of course."
"Eh. Good . . ." Liga flicked fast-forward through the vid catalogue. "These heavy-duty plasma arcs, now . . . how do they compare with the cannon-grade nerve disrupters?"
Miles shrugged. "Depends entirely upon whether you want to blow away people alone, or people and property both. I can make you a very good price on the nerve disrupters." He named a figure in Pol credits.
"I got a better quote than that, on a device of the same kilowattage, lately," Liga mentioned disinterestedly.
"I'll bet you did." Miles grinned. "Poison, one credit. Antidote, one hundred credits."
"What's that supposed to mean, eh?" asked Liga suspiciously.
Miles unrolled his lapel and ran his thumb down the underside, and pulled out a tiny vid tab. "Take a look