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.