Young Miles - Lois McMaster Bujold [50]
He checked their cargo manifest. "This right?" he asked the leader of the party who had come in with Elena and Baz.
"All the cases we busted open checked," replied the soldier.
"They made the most awful mess down there," Elena gritted under her breath to Miles.
"Sh. Never mind."
The mercenary captain sighed, and began sorting through their various identification files. At one point he grinned, and glanced up at Bothari, then Elena. Miles sweated. Auson finished the check, and leaned back casually in his seat before the computer console, regarding Mayhew glumly.
"You the pilot officer, eh?" he inquired unenthusiastically.
"Yes, sir," replied Mayhew, well coached in meekness by Miles.
"Betan?"
"Yes, sir."
"Are you—never mind. You're Betan, that answers the question. More frigging weirds per capita than any other . . ." he trailed off. "You ready to go?"
Mayhew glanced at Miles uncertainly.
"Damn it!" cried Auson, "I asked you, not Shorty! Bad enough that I'll have to look at you over the breakfast table for the next few weeks. He'd give me indigestion. Yeah, smile, you little mutant—" this last to Miles, "I bet you'd like to cut my liver out."
Miles smoothed his face, worried. He had been so sure he'd looked meek. Maybe it was Bothari. "No, sir," he said brightly, blinking for a meek effect.
The mercenary captain glared at him a moment, then muttered, "Aw, the hell with it," and rose.
His eye fell on Elena again, and he smiled thoughtfully. Elena frowned back. Auson looked around.
"Tell you what, Shorty," he said, in a benevolent tone. "You can keep your pilot. I've had about all the Betans I can take, lately."
Mayhew sighed relief under his breath. Miles relaxed, secretly delighted.
The mercenary captain waved at Elena. "I'll take her, instead. Go pack your things, honey."
Frozen silence.
Auson smiled at her, invitingly. "You won't be missing a thing by not seeing Tau Verde, believe me. You be a good girl, you might even get your money back."
Elena turned dilated eyes toward Miles. "My lord . . . ?" she said in a small, uncertain voice. It was not a slip of the tongue; she had a right to call for protection from her liege lord. It grieved him that she had not called "Miles," instead. Bothari's stillness was utter, his face blank and hard.
Miles stepped up to the mercenary captain, his meekness slipping badly. "The agreement was you were to hold our pilot officer," he stated in a flat voice.
Auson grinned wolfishly. "I make my own rules. She goes."
"She doesn't want to. If you don't want the pilot officer, choose another."
"Don't worry about it, Shorty. She'll have a good time. You can even have her back on the way out—if she still wants to go with you."
"I said choose another!"
The mercenary captain chuckled and turned away. Miles's hand closed around his arm. The other mercenaries, watching the show, didn't even bother to draw weapons. Auson's face lit with happiness, and he swung around. He's been itching for this, Miles realized. Well, so have I. . . .
The contest was brief and unequal. A clutch, a twist, a ringing blow, and Miles was slammed facedown on the deck. The metallic tang of blood filled his mouth. As an afterthought, a deliberately aimed boot to his belly doubled him over where he lay, and assured that he wouldn't be rebounding to his feet in the immediate future.
Miles curled in agony, cheek pressed to the friction matting. Thank God it wasn't the rib cage, he thought incoherently through a haze of rage, pain, and nausea. He squinted at the boots, spread aggressively beyond his nose. Toes must be steel-lined . . .
The mercenary captain wheeled around, hands on hips. "Well?" he demanded of Miles's crew. Silence and stillness; all looked to Bothari, who might have been stone.
Auson, disappointed, spat disgustedly—either he wasn't aiming at Miles, or he missed—and muttered, "Aw, the hell with