'I'll bet you did,' Miles grinned. 'Poison, one credit. Antidote, one hundred credits.'
'What's that supposed to mean, eh?' asked Liga suspiciously. Miles unrolled his lapel and ran his thumb down the underside, and pulled out a tiny vid tab. 'Take a look at this.' He inserted it into the vid viewer. A figure sprang to life, and pirouetted. It was dressed from head to toe– and finger-tips in what appeared to be glittering skin-tight netting,
'A bit drafty for long underwear, eh?' said Liga sceptically. Miles flashed him a pained smile. 'What you're looking at is what every armed force in the galaxy would like to get their hands on. The perfected single-person nerve disrupter shield net. Beta Colony's latest technological card.'
Liga's eyes widened. 'First I'd heard they were on the market.'
'The open market, no. These are, as it were, private advance sales.' Beta Colony only advertised its second or third latest advantages; staying several steps ahead of everybody else in R&D had been the harsh world's stock-in-trade for a couple of generations. In time, Beta Colony would be marketing its new device galaxy- wide. In the meantime . . .
Liga licked his pouty lower lip. 'We use nerve disruptors a lot.' For security guards? Right, sure. 'I have a limited supply of shield nets. First come, first served.'
'The price?'
Miles named a figure in Betan dollars. 'Outrageous!' Liga rocked back in his float chair. Miles shrugged. 'Think about it. It could put your . . . organization at a considerable disadvantage not to be the first to upgrade its defenses. I'm sure you can imagine.'
'I'll . . . have to check it out. Eh . . . can I have that disk to show my eh, supervisor?'
Miles pursed his lips. 'Don't get caught with it.'
'No way.' Liga spun the demo vid through its paces one more time, staring in fascination at the sparkling soldier-figure, before pocketing the disk.
There. The hook was baited, and cast upon dark waters. It was going to be very interesting to see what nibbled, whether minnows or monstrous leviathans. Liga was a fish of the ramora underclass, Miles judged. Well, he had to start somewhere.
Back out on the concourse, Miles muttered worriedly to Overholt,
'Did I do all right?'
'Very smooth, sir,' Overholt reassured him. Well, maybe. It had felt good, running by plan. He could almost feel himself submerging into the smarmy personality of Victor Rotha. For lunch, Miles led Overholt to a cafeteria with seating open to the concourse, the better for anyone not-watching Ungari to observe them. He munched a sandwich of vat-produced protein, and let his tight nerves unwind a little. This act could be all right. Not nearly as overstimulating as– 'Admiral Naismith!'
Miles nearly choked on a half-chewed bite, his head swivelling frantically to identify the source of the surprised voice. Overholt jerked to full-alert, though he managed to keep his hand from flying prematurely to his concealed stunner.
Two men had paused beside his table. One Miles did not recognize. The other . . . damn! He knew that face. Square-jawed, brown-skinned, too neat and fit for his age to pass as anything but a soldier despite his Polian civilian clothes. The name, the name . . . One of Tung's commandos, a combat-drop-shuttle squad commander. The last time Miles had seen him they'd been suiting up together in the
'I'm sorry, you're mistaken,' Miles's denial was pure spinal reflex. 'My name is Victor Rotha.'
Chodak blinked. 'What? Oh! Sorry. That is—you look a lot like somebody I used to know.' He took in Overholt. His eyes queried Miles urgently. 'Uh, can we join you?' ; 'No!' said Miles sharply, panicked. No, wait. He shouldn't throw away a possible contact. This was a complication for which he should-have been prepared. But to activate Naismith prematurely, without Ungari's orders. . . .
'Anyway, not here,' he amended hastily. 'I … see, sir.' With a short nod, Chodak immediately withdrew drawing his reluctant companion with him. He managed to glance back over his shoulder only once. Miles restrained the impulse to bite his napkin in half. The two men faded into the concourse. By their urgent gestures, they appeared to be arguing.
'Was that smooth?' Miles asked plaintively.
Overholt looked mildly dismayed. 'Not very.' He frowned down the concourse in the direction the two men had disappeared.
It didn't take Chodak more than an hour to track Miles down aboard his Betan ship in dock. Ungari was still out.
'He says he wants to talk to you,' said Overholt. He and Miles studied the vid monitor of the hatchway, where Chodak shifted impatiently from foot to foot. 'What do you think he really wants?'
'Probably, to talk to me,' said Miles. 'Damn me if I don't want to talk to him, too.'
'How well did you know him?' asked Overholt suspiciously, staring at Chodak's image.
'Not well,' Miles admitted. 'He seemed a competent non-com. Knew his equipment, kept his people moving, stood his ground under fire.' In truth, thinking back, Miles's actual contacts with the man had been brief, all in the course of business . . . but some of those minutes had been critical, in the wild uncertainty of shipboard combat. Was Miles's gut-feel really adequate security clearance for a man he hadn't seen for almost four years? 'Scan him, sure. But let's let him in and see what he has to say.'
'If you so order it, sir,' said Overholt neutrally.
'I do.'
Chodak did not seem to resent being scanned. He carried only a registered stunner. Though he had also been an expert at hand-to-hand combat, Miles recalled, a weapon no one could confiscate. Overholt escorted him to the small ship's wardroom/mess—the Betans would have called it the rec room.
'Mr. Rotha,' Chodak nodded, 'I, uh . . . hoped we could talk here privately.' He looked doubtfully at Overholt. 'Or have you replaced Sergeant Bothari?'
'Never.' Miles motioned Overholt to follow him into the corridor, didn't speak till the doors sighed shut, 'I think you are an inhibiting presence, Sergeant. Would you mind waiting outside?' Miles didn't specify whom Overholt inhibited. 'You can monitor, of course.'
'Bad idea,' Overholt frowned. 'Suppose he jumps you?'
Miles's fingers tapped nervously on his trouser seam. 'It's a possibility. But we're heading for Aslund next, where the Dendarii are stationed, Ungari says. He may bear useful information.'
'If he tells the truth.'
'Even lies can be revealing.' With this doubtful argument Miles squeezed back into the wardroom, shedding Overholt. He nodded to his visitor, now seated at a table. 'Corporal Chodak.'
Chodak brightened. 'You do remember,'
'Oh, yes. And, ah … are you still with the Dendarii?'
'Yes, sir. It's Sergeant Chodak, now.'
'Very good. I'm not surprised.' 'And, um . . . the Oseran Mercenaries.'
'So I understand. Whether it's good or not remains to be seen.'
'What are you posing as, sir?'
'Victor Rotha is an arms dealer.'
'That's a good cover,' Chodak nodded, judiciously. Miles tried to put a casual mask on his next words by punching up two coffees. 'So what are you doing on Pol Six? I thought the Den– the fleet was hired out on Aslund.'
'At Aslund Station, here in the Hub,' Chodak corrected. 'It's just a couple days' flight across-system. What there is of it, so far. Government contractors.' He shook his head.
'Behind schedule and over cost?'
'You got it.' He accepted the coffee without hesitation, holding it between lean hands, and took a preliminary slurp. 'I can't stay long.' He turned the cup, set it on the table. 'Sir, I think I may have accidentally done you a bad turn. I was so startled to see you there. . . . Anyway, I wanted to … to warn you, I guess. Are you on the way back to the fleet?'
'I'm afraid I can't discuss my plans. Not even with you.'
Chodak gave him a penetrating stare from black almond eyes. 'You always were tricky.'
