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He studies his uniform in the mirrored door of the public comconsole booth, assessing structure and detail. The fragmented reflection thrown by the artistically misaligned panes is a good way to isolate sectors for scrutiny. Jacket, trousers, boots—the door opens; he looks up; the woman stepping out looks down. When her eyes meet his, she physically flinches back. He winces and switches on Miles a little early, to be sure of getting the smile right: apologetic, just a little tired, no need to worry. She accepts this revision of her reality, smiles back, and moves on; he steps into the booth and shuts the door.
Another mirror awaits within, this one flat and clear and broad, meant for practical use. Curious now, he switches Miles off again and closes his eyes briefly to recapture the moment.
When he opens his eyes, he nearly flinches himself. Shit, no wonder she was upset. He looks like a man pursued by the legions of Hell. Come on, Mark, shape up. He flips the inner switch again and relaxes immediately; the man in the mirror turns from haggard wretch to tired but friendly, just like that.
All right. Time to make a call.
He settles the Betan accent in his mind while his hands input credit information and comm code. The accent's the trickiest part by far; he's had time to practice it, but not to get it bone-deep and quick as breathing like the Barrayaran one.
The image of a face materializes above the vid plate, interposing itself between him and the mirror. Her grey-and-white uniform is better kept than his, properly adorned with a lieutenant's insignia and a name patch. "Comm Officer Hereld, Triumph, Dendarii Free... Corporation," she says, not quite stumbling over the substitution; in peaceful Escobaran space, a mercenary fleet must pass with weapons sealed and good intentions verified and even its name slightly censored.
Mark—Miles—flashes her the Naismith grin. "Good to see you, Lieutenant," he says. Betan pronunciation, the fluid -eu- instead of the sibilant -eff- of a Barrayaran or Londoner.
She lights up instantly. "Admiral Naismith, sir! You're back!" Her smile is like a hit of some intensely addictive drug, juba or dreamline, something that takes you higher than an orbital flight and then burns you up on reentry. It feels good now, oh yes, but the comedown is going to be hell... can't think about that now. Miles wouldn't. "What's up? Are we going to be moving out soon?"
"In good time, Lieutenant," he says, smiling a wait-for-it smile. "You'll see. And in the meanwhile, I want a pick-up from this station."
"Yes, sir," nods Hereld. "I can get that for you. Is Captain Quinn with you?"
If he were really Miles, she would be, almost certainly; but Hereld doesn't know that. Mark shakes his head. "Not at the moment."
"Oh? When will she be following?"
"Later," he says smoothly.
"Right, sir. Let me just get clearance for—are we loading any equipment?"
He shakes his head again. "Just me."
"For a personnel pod, then." She shifts her eyes from the vid pickup for a few seconds, then reports, "I can have someone at docking bay E17 in about twenty minutes."
Which is just about the time it would take him to reach docking bay E17 from this comm booth at a dead run. "Perfect. I want to be transferred directly to the Ariel."
"Right, sir. Shall I notify Captain Thorne?"
"Yes. Tell it to make ready to break orbit," he says.
"Just the Ariel?" she asks, lifting curious eyebrows.
"Yes, Lieutenant," he says, with a gently chiding tone that causes her to straighten up slightly.
"Will do, Admiral."
"Naismith out," he says breezily, and cuts the com. Lieutenant Herald's face dissolves into twinkling lights. Admiral Naismith takes a deep breath. He's in it now, all right. The energy of Miles's soul fills him to overflowing, issuing from that bottomless well in the back of his mind. He pulls his credit chit from the slot, tucks it securely in one of his many pockets, and bolts down the station corridors toward the appropriate docking bay.
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unmarred
thisvorlunatic
After breakfast. Have a meal sent up.
Which will give him enough time to go over those personnel files a second time. And Miles attending to his own meal requirements without anyone having to chase him down and sit on him is rare, but not literally unheard-of.
Which will give him enough time to go over those personnel files a second time. And Miles attending to his own meal requirements without anyone having to chase him down and sit on him is rare, but not literally unheard-of.
A meal arrives presently. It is exquisitely attentive to Miles's culinary preferences. There's even ice cream. "Can I get you anything else, sir?" asks the fellow who brings it.
thisvorlunatic
"No, thanks," he says with an easy acknowledging smile.
(The way these people look at him - does Miles ever - no, Miles has long since outgrown feeling unworthy of their enthusiasm. Miles fluently inhales this atmosphere of attention.)
(The way these people look at him - does Miles ever - no, Miles has long since outgrown feeling unworthy of their enthusiasm. Miles fluently inhales this atmosphere of attention.)
The fellow inclines his head respectfully and departs.
thisvorlunatic
He sits down to his questionably breakfastlike meal. Clearly whoever prepared this for him hadn't been notified that Admiral Naismith's body clock is currently almost all the way out of step with ship time. Well, he'll have time to drag his sleep schedule around on the way to Jackson's Whole.
When both the personnel files and the exquisitely Miles-targeted dinner are consumed and comfortably digesting, he changes into a fresher, neater uniform than the one he slept in and notifies Thorne that he'll have that inspection now.
When both the personnel files and the exquisitely Miles-targeted dinner are consumed and comfortably digesting, he changes into a fresher, neater uniform than the one he slept in and notifies Thorne that he'll have that inspection now.
They're ready whenever you are, comes the reply.
thisvorlunatic
Implying that their current location is so obvious as to go without mentioning. He heads for the starboard loading bay.
The contents of those personnel files are all present, real and alive, each laden with a richly informative individual array of weapons and small personal items. Here a paper charm pinned to a sleeve in minor defiance of regulation; there a holstered plasma arc with its grip recently replaced and bearing three kill-marker notches already. Mark inhales knowledge. The sound of a dozen comfortably boisterous commandos neatly covers his approach.
The contents of those personnel files are all present, real and alive, each laden with a richly informative individual array of weapons and small personal items. Here a paper charm pinned to a sleeve in minor defiance of regulation; there a holstered plasma arc with its grip recently replaced and bearing three kill-marker notches already. Mark inhales knowledge. The sound of a dozen comfortably boisterous commandos neatly covers his approach.
ofthestars
Some commandos have better hearing than others.
"Heads up!" calls the thirteenth soldier. The effect is instantaneous; they practically teleport into two neat rows of six.
The speaker stands up, unfolding to his full height of eight feet, two inches, and salutes Naismith with calm seriousness from the far end of the front row. "Sergeant Asterion and the Green Squad, reporting as ordered, sir."
"Heads up!" calls the thirteenth soldier. The effect is instantaneous; they practically teleport into two neat rows of six.
The speaker stands up, unfolding to his full height of eight feet, two inches, and salutes Naismith with calm seriousness from the far end of the front row. "Sergeant Asterion and the Green Squad, reporting as ordered, sir."
thisvorlunatic
Mark fights down prey instincts that Miles would not be displaying. Miles is used to the effect, he's sure. Miles barely sees the coiled predator in the tall young man.
"Thank you, Sergeant," he says, pacing down the line and offering each soldier an equal measure of his attention, his approval. They straighten visibly, glowing with pride under his regard. It feels terribly, beautifully right. At the end, he steps back smoothly to meet Asterion's eyes and give him a firm nod.
"Thank you, Sergeant," he says, pacing down the line and offering each soldier an equal measure of his attention, his approval. They straighten visibly, glowing with pride under his regard. It feels terribly, beautifully right. At the end, he steps back smoothly to meet Asterion's eyes and give him a firm nod.
thisvorlunatic
Miles doesn't fear that smile.
"Likewise," he says, grinning back. "Dismissed, Green Squad. You'll get your orders from Captain Thorne later."
"Likewise," he says, grinning back. "Dismissed, Green Squad. You'll get your orders from Captain Thorne later."
ofthestars
Green Squad evaporates with miraculous speed; Sergeant Asterion lingers, casting a thoughtful glance over his shoulder, and then goes with the rest.
thisvorlunatic
Well. He has survived this encounter intact, and Sergeant Asterion does not seem to have smelled his true identity or some damn thing. Time to go unload his Bharaputra-related intel into a comconsole for Bel.
When the first installment comes through, Thorne replies: Awfully introverted of you sending all this in writing. Where's my color commentary, Miles?
thisvorlunatic
My apologies. If I'd known you were that starved for my company I would of course have taken the entire week to personally read it all to you in your cabin over tea, he sends back, giggling a Miles giggle to himself.
I stocked up on the boring stuff just for you.
As well you know. Come on, we're going to be held up for a while in three jumps due to heavy traffic but the trip isn't so long that I couldn't lose more time than we have trying to digest this all written down and then regurgitate it for the troops.
thisvorlunatic
All right, all right. I accept your gracious invitation. When shall I appear for tea and verbal handholding?
Your earliest convenience, of course. My hands are grievously unheld over here.
thisvorlunatic
A tragedy. I must correct this at once.
Across the hall to Bel's cabin he goes.
Across the hall to Bel's cabin he goes.
whyexit
Bel opens the door.
It's wearing perfume and leaning slightly out of regulation in its uniform's apportionment. There's tea brewing.
"Come in, come in."
It's wearing perfume and leaning slightly out of regulation in its uniform's apportionment. There's tea brewing.
"Come in, come in."
thisvorlunatic
He pauses on the threshold, seems almost about to comment, and then steps inside.
"I've had a little longer to familiarize myself with the data dump, so I didn't quite realize how stupidly enormous it was. Thank our employer for their attention to detail, I guess. Should I start you off on the highlights, or have you had a chance to review the summaries already?"
"I've had a little longer to familiarize myself with the data dump, so I didn't quite realize how stupidly enormous it was. Thank our employer for their attention to detail, I guess. Should I start you off on the highlights, or have you had a chance to review the summaries already?"
whyexit
"I looked at the summaries. We're only getting the older ones, not the little kids?"
thisvorlunatic
"Yeah. The little ones are scattered across a larger number of facilities, some of them may be temporarily placed in individual foster homes - the locations are less secure, but there's absolutely no chance of a hit-and-run sweep like we're planning for the nine- and ten-year-olds. Having all the older kids concentrated in a single location makes them easier to guard as a set, but correspondingly easier to steal as a set."