Young Miles - Lois McMaster Bujold [231]
"A bit drafty for long underwear, eh?" said Liga skeptically.
Miles flashed him a pained smile. "What you're looking at is what every armed force in the galaxy would like to get their hands on. The perfected single-person nerve disrupter shield net. Beta Colony's latest technological card."
Liga's eyes widened. "First I'd heard they were on the market."
"The open market, no. These are, as it were, private advance sales." Beta Colony only advertised its second or third latest advantages; staying several steps ahead of everybody else in R&D had been the harsh world's stock-in-trade for a couple of generations. In time, Beta Colony would be marketing its new device galaxy-wide. In the meantime . . .
Liga licked his pouty lower lip. "We use nerve disrupters a lot."
For security guards? Right, sure. "I have a limited supply of shield nets. First come, first served."
"The price?"
Miles named a figure in Betan dollars.
"Outrageous!" Liga rocked back in his float chair.
Miles shrugged. "Think about it. It could put your . . . organization at a considerable disadvantage not to be the first to upgrade its defenses. I'm sure you can imagine."
"I'll . . . have to check it out. Eh . . . can I have that disk to show my, eh, supervisor?"
Miles pursed his lips. "Don't get caught with it."
"No way." Liga spun the demo vid through its paces one more time, staring in fascination at the sparkling soldier-figure, before pocketing the disk.
There. The hook was baited, and cast upon dark waters. It was going to be very interesting to see what nibbled, whether minnows or monstrous leviathans. Liga was a fish of the ramora underclass, Miles judged. Well, he had to start somewhere.
Back out on the concourse, Miles muttered worriedly to Overholt, "Did I do all right?"
"Very smooth, sir," Overholt reassured him.
Well, maybe. It had felt good, running by plan. He could almost feel himself submerging into the smarmy personality of Victor Rotha.
For lunch, Miles led Overholt to a cafeteria with seating open to the concourse, the better for anyone not-watching Ungari to observe them. He munched a sandwich of vat-produced protein, and let his tight nerves unwind a little. This act could be all right. Not nearly as overstimulating as—
"Admiral Naismith!"
Miles nearly choked on a half-chewed bite, his head swivelling frantically to identify the source of the surprised voice. Overholt jerked to full-alert, though he managed to keep his hand from flying prematurely to his concealed stunner.
Two men had paused beside his table. One Miles did not recognize. The other . . . damn! He knew that face. Square-jawed, brown-skinned, too neat and fit for his age to pass as anything but a soldier despite his Polian civilian clothes. The name, the name . . . ! One of Tung's commandos, a combat-drop-shuttle squad commander. The last time Miles had seen him they'd been suiting up together in the Triumph's armory, preparing for a boarding battle. Clive Chodak, that was his name.
"I'm sorry, you're mistaken," Miles's denial was pure spinal reflex. "My name is Victor Rotha."
Chodak blinked. "What? Oh! Sorry. That is—you look a lot like somebody I used to know." He took in Overholt. His eyes queried Miles urgently. "Uh, can we join you?"
"No!" said Miles sharply, panicked. No, wait. He shouldn't throw away a possible contact. This was a complication for which he should have been prepared. But to activate Naismith prematurely, without Ungari's orders . . . "Anyway, not here," he amended hastily.
"I . . . see, sir." With a short nod, Chodak immediately withdrew, drawing his reluctant companion with him. He managed to glance back over his shoulder only once. Miles restrained the impulse to bite his napkin in half. The two men faded into the concourse. By their urgent gestures, they appeared to be arguing.
"Was that smooth?" Miles asked plaintively.
Overholt looked mildly