Young Miles - Lois McMaster Bujold [261]
"He's pulled this off three times," Miles offered in unfelt reassurance. "Why not a fourth?"
The freighter captain smiled thinly, and stepped away from the wall, out of the line of fire. "I pulled it off twice," he informed them. "The third time, I got caught."
Miles's hands twitched. He held them carefully away from his sides, biting back swear words. Slowly, Gregor raised his hands as well, face wonderfully blank. Score one for Gregor's self-control, as always, the one virtue his constrained life had surely inculcated.
Tung had set this up. All by himself. Had Tung known? Sold by Tung? No . . . ! "Tung said you were reliable," Miles grated to the freighter captain.
"What's Tung to me?" the man snarled back. "I have a family, mister."
Under the stunners' aim, two—God, goons again!—soldiers stepped forward to lean Miles and Gregor, hands to the wall, and shake them down, relieving them of all their hard-won Oseran weapons, equipment, and multiple IDs. The officer examined the cache. "Yeah, these are Oser's men, all right." He spoke into his wrist comm. "We have them."
"Carry on," a thin voice returned. "We'll be right down. Cavilo out."
Randall's Rangers, evidently, hence the unfamiliar uniforms. But why no Vervani in sight? "Pardon me," Miles said mildly to the officer, "but are you people acting under the misapprehension we are Aslunder agents?"
The officer stared down at him and snorted.
"I wonder if it might not be time to establish our real identity," Gregor murmured tentatively to Miles.
"Interesting dilemma," Miles returned out of the corner of his mouth. "We'd better find out if they shoot spies."
A brisk tapping of boots heralded a new arrival. The squad braced as the sound rounded the corner. Gregor came to attention too, in automatic military courtesy, his straightness looking very strange hung about with Arde Mayhew's clothes. Miles no doubt looked least military of all, with his mouth gaping open in shock. He closed it before something flew in, such as his foot.
Five feet tall and a bit added by black boots with higher-than-regulation heels. Cropped blond hair like a dandelion aureole on that sculptured head. Crisp tan-and-black rank-gilded uniform that fit her body language in perfect complement. Livia Nu.
The officer saluted. "Commander Cavilo, ma'am."
"Very good, Lieutenant. . . ." Her blue eyes, falling on Miles, widened in unfeigned surprise, instantly covered. "Why, Victor, darling," her voice went syrupy with exaggerated amusement and delight, "fancy meeting you here. Still selling miracle suits to the unwitting?"
Miles spread his empty hands. "This is the totality of my luggage, ma'am. You should have bought when you could."
"I wonder." Her smile was tight and speculative. Miles found the glitter in her eyes disturbing. Gregor, silent, looked frantically bewildered.
So, your name wasn't Livia Nu, and you weren't a procurement agent. So why the devil was the commandant of Vervain's mercenary force meeting incognito on Pol Station with a representative of the most powerful House of the Jacksonian Consortium? That was no mere arms deal, darling.
Cavilo/Livia Nu raised her wrist comm to her lips. "Sickbay, Kurin's Hand. Cavilo here. I'm sending you up a couple of prisoners for questioning. I may sit in on this one myself." She keyed off.
The freighter captain stepped forward, half-fearful, half-pugnacious. "My wife and son. Now you prove they're safe."
Judiciously, she looked him over. "You may be good for another run. All right." She gestured to a soldier. "Take this man to the Kurin's brig and let him have a look on the monitors. Then bring him back to me. You're a fortunate traitor, Captain. I have another job for you by which you may earn them—"
"Their freedom?" the freighter captain demanded.
She frowned slightly at the interruption. "Why should I inflate your salary? Another week of life."
He trailed off after the soldier, hands clenched angrily, teeth clenched prudently.
What the hell? Miles thought. He didn't know much about Vervain, but he was pretty sure