Young Miles - Lois McMaster Bujold [246]
He found a portal, its transparent plexi bellied out to offer passersby a wide-angle view. He put one foot on the lower edge and leaned out—casually—and bit back a few choice swear words. Glittering a few kilometers off was the commercial transfer station. A tiny glint of a ship was docking even now. The military station was apparently being designed as a separate facility, or at least not connected yet. No wonder blue-smocks could wander at will. Miles stared across the gap in mild frustration. Well, he'd search this place first for Ungari, the other later. Somehow. He turned and started—
"Hey, you! Little techie!"
Miles froze, controlling a reflexive urge to sprint—that tactic hadn't worked last time—and turned, trying for an expression of polite inquiry. The man who'd hailed him was big but unarmed, wearing tan supervisor's coveralls. He looked harried. "Yes, sir?" said Miles.
"You're just what I need." The man's hand fell heavily on Miles's shoulder. "Come with me."
Miles perforce followed, trying to stay calm, maybe project a little bored annoyance.
"What's your specialization?" the man asked.
"Drains," Miles intoned.
"Perfect!"
Dismayed, Miles followed the man to where two half-finished corridors intersected. An archway gaped raw and uncapped by molding, though the molding lay ready to install.
The super pointed to a narrow space between walls. "See this pipe?"
Sewage, by the grey color-coding, air and grav pumped. It disappeared in darkness. "Yeah?"
"There's a leak somewhere behind this corridor wall. Crawl in and find it, so's we don't have to tear out all the damn paneling we just put up."
"Got a light?"
The man fished in his pocketed coverall and produced a hand light.
"Right," sighed Miles. "Is it hooked up yet?"
"About to be. Damn thing failed the final pressure test."
Only air would be spewing out. Miles brightened slightly. Maybe his luck was changing.
He slid in and inched along the smooth round surface, listening and feeling. About seven meters in he found it, a rush of cool air from a crack under his hands, quite marked. He shook his head, attempted to turn in the constricted space, and put his foot through the paneling.
He stuck his head out the hole in astonishment, and glanced up and down the corridor. He wriggled a chunk of paneling from the edge and stared at it, turning it in his hands.
Two men putting up light fixtures, their tools sparking, turned to stare. "What the hell are you doing?" said the one in tan coveralls, sounding outraged.
"Quality control inspection," said Miles glibly, "and boy, do you have a problem."
Miles considered kicking the hole wider and just walking back to his starting point, but turned and inched instead. He emerged by the anxiously waiting super.
"Your leak's in section six," Miles reported. He handed the man his panel chunk. "If those corridor panels are supposed to be made of flammable fiberboard instead of spun silica on a military installation planned to withstand enemy fire, somebody's hired a real poor designer. If they're not—I suggest you take a couple of those big goons with the shock-sticks and go pay a visit to your supplier."
The super swore. Lips compressed, he grasped the nearest panel edge fronting the wall and twisted hard. A fist-sized segment cracked and tore off. "Bitchen. How much of this stuff's been installed already?"
"Lots," Miles suggested cheerfully. He turned to escape before the super, worrying off fragments and muttering under his breath, thought of another chore. Flushed and sweating, Miles skittered off and didn't relax till he'd rounded the second corner.
He passed a pair of armed men in grey-and-white uniforms. One turned to stare. Miles kept walking, teeth clenching his lower lip, and did not look back.
Dendarii! or, Oserans! Here, aboard this station—how many, where? Those two were the