Young Miles - Lois McMaster Bujold [274]
She held her hand to her forehead and broke into giggles; real ones, not mannered ploys for a change. The real, spontaneous Cavilo at last; he'd been right, her sense of humor was vile. "Oh, dear," she gasped. "This gives me the most marvelous idea for a gas grenade. A pity I'll never . . . ah, well."
His sinuses throbbed like kettle drums. She shook her head helplessly, and tapped out something on her comconsole.
"I think I had best speed you on your way, before you explode," she told him.
Bent over in his seat wheezing, his water-clouded gaze fell on his brown felt slippers. "Can I at least have a pair of boots for this trip?"
She pursed her lips in a moment of thought. " . . . No," she decided. "It will be more interesting to see you carry on just as you are."
"In this uniform, on Aslund, I'll be like a cat in a dog suit," he protested. "Shot on sight by mistake."
"By mistake . . . on purpose . . . goodness, you're going to have an exciting time." She keyed the door lock open.
He was still sneezing and gasping as the guards came in to take him away. Cavilo was still laughing.
* * *
The effects of her poisonous perfume took half an hour to wear off, by which time he was locked in a tiny cabin aboard an inner-system ship. They had boarded via a lock on the Kurin's Hand; he hadn't even set foot on Vervain Station again. Not a chance of a break for it.
He checked out the cabin. Its bed and lavatory arrangements were highly reminiscent of his last cell. Space duty, hah. The vast vistas of the wide universe, hah. The glory of the Imperial Service—un-hah. He'd lost Gregor. . . . I may be small, but I screw up big because I'm standing on the shoulders of GIANTS. He tried pounding on the door and screaming into the intercom. No one came.
It's a surprise.
He could surprise them all by hanging himself, a briefly attractive notion. But there was nothing up high to hook his belt on.
All right. This courier-type ship was swifter than the lumbering freighter in which he and Gregor had taken three days to cross the system last time, but it wasn't instantaneous. He had at least a day and a half to do some serious thinking, he and Admiral Naismith.
It's a surprise. God.
* * *
An officer and a guard came for him, very close to the time Miles estimated they would arrive back at Aslund Station's defense perimeter. But we haven't docked yet. This seems premature. His nervous exhaustion still responded to a shot of adrenaline; he inhaled, trying to clear his frenzy-fogged brain back to alertness again. Much more of this, though, and no amount of adrenaline would do him any good. The officer led him through the short corridors of the little ship to Nav and Com.
The Ranger captain was present, leaning over the communication console manned by his second officer. The pilot and flight engineer were busy at their stations.
"If they board, they'll arrest him, and he'll be automatically delivered as ordered," the second officer was saying.
"If they arrest him, they could arrest us too. She said to plant him, and she didn't care if it was head or feet first. She didn't order us to get ourselves interned," said the captain.
A voice from the comm; "This is the picket ship Ariel, Aslund Navy Contract Auxiliary, calling the C6-WG out of Vervain Hubside Station. Cease accelerating, and clear your portside lock for boarding for pre-docking inspection. Aslund Station reserves the right to deny you docking privileges if you fail to cooperate in pre-docking inspection." The voice took on a cheery tone, "I reserve the right to open fire if you don't stand and deliver in one minute. That's enough stalling, boys." The voice, once gone ironic, was suddenly intensely familiar. Bel?
"Cease accelerating," the captain ordered, and motioned the second to close the comm channel. "Hey you, Rotha," he called to Miles. "Come over here."
So I'm "Rotha" again. Miles mustered a smarmy smile, and sidled closer. He eyed the viewer, striving to conceal his hungry interest. The Ariel? Yes, there it was in the vid display, the sleek