Lois McMaster Bujold Omnibus 4 Miles Mystery and Mayhem

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few stray wanderers like Bel. As a mercenary officer Thorne was conscientious,
loyal, and aggressive, and Miles liked him/her/it Betan custom used the neuter
pronoun a lot. However . . .
Miles could smell Bel's floral perfume from here. Bel was emphasizing the
female side today. And had been, increasingly, for the five days of this
voyage. Normally Bel chose to come on ambiguous-to-male, soft short brown hair
and chiselled, beardless facial features counteracted by the gray-and-white
Dendarii military uniform, assertive gestures, and wicked humor. It worried
Miles exceedingly to sense Bel soften in his presence.
Turning to his computer console's holovid plate, Miles again called up the
image of the planet they were approaching. Jackson's Whole looked demure
enough from a distance, mountainous, rather cold the populated equator was
only temperate ringed in the vid by a lacy schematic net of colored satellite
tracks, orbital transfer stations, and authorized approach vectors. "Have you
ever been here before, Bel?"
"Once, when I was a lieutenant in Admiral Oser's fleet," said the mercenary.
"House Fell has a new baron since then. Their weaponry still has a good
reputation, as long as you know what you're buying. Stay away from the sale on
neutron hand grenades."
"Heh. For those with strong throwing arms. Fear not, neutron hand grenades
aren't on the list." He handed the data disk to Bel.
Bel sidled up and leaned over the back of Miles's station chair to take it.
"Shall I grant leaves to the crew while we're waiting for the baron's minions
to load cargo? How about yourself? There used to be a hostel near the docks
with all the amenities, pool, sauna, great food . . ." Bel's voice lowered. "I
could book a room for two."
"I'd only figured to grant day passes." Necessarily, Miles cleared his throat.
"I am a woman, too," Bel pointed out in a murmur.
"Among other things."
"You're so hopelessly monosexual, Miles."
"Sorry." Awkwardly, he patted the hand that had somehow come to rest on his
shoulder.
Bel sighed and straightened. "So many are."
Miles sighed too. Perhaps he ought to make his rejection more emphatic this
was only about the seventh time he'd been round with Bel on this subject. It
was almost ritualized by now, almost, but not quite, a joke. You had to give
the Betan credit for either optimism or obtuseness . . . or, Miles's honesty
added, genuine feeling. If he turned round now, he knew, he might surprise an
essential loneliness in the hermaphrodite's eyes, never permitted on the lips.
He did not turn round.
And who was he to judge another, Miles reflected ruefully, whose own body
brought him so little joy? What did Bel, straight and healthy and of normal
height, if unusual genital arrangements, find so attractive in a little
half-crippled part-time crazy man? He glanced down at the gray Dendarii
officer's uniform he wore. The uniform he had won. If you can't be seven feet
tall, be seven feet smart. His reason had so far failed to present him with a
solution to the problem of Thorne, though.
"Have you ever thought of going back to Beta Colony, and seeking one of your
own?" Miles asked seriously.
Thorne shrugged. "Too boring. That's why I left. It's so very safe, so very
narrow. . . ."
"Mind you, a great place to raise kids." One corner of Miles's mouth twisted
up.
Thorne grinned. "You got it. You're an almost perfect Betan, y'know? Almost.
You have the accent, the in-jokes . . ."
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Miles went a little still. "Where do I fail?"
Thorne touched Miles's cheek; Miles flinched.
"Reflexes," said Thorne.
"Ah."
"I won't give you away."
"I know."
Bel was leaning in again. "I could polish that last edge . . ."
"Never mind," said Miles, slightly flushed. "We have a mission."
"Inventory," said Thorne scornfully.
"That's not a mission," said Miles, "that's a cover."
"Ah ha." Thorne straightened up. "At last."
"At last?"
"It doesn't take a genius. We came to purchase ordnance, but instead of taking
the ship with the biggest cargo capacity, you chose the Ariel the fleet's
fastest. There's no deader dull routine than inventory, but instead of sending
a perfectly competent quartermaster, you're overseeing it personally."
"I do want to make contact with the new Baron Fell," said Miles mildly. "House
Fell is the biggest arms supplier this side of Beta Colony, and a lot less
picky about who its customers are. If I like the quality of the initial
purchase, they could become a regular supplier."
"A quarter of Fell's arms are Betan manufacture, marked up," said Thorne.
"Again, ha."
"And while we're here," Miles went on, "a certain middle-aged man is going to
present himself and sign on to the Dendarii Mercenaries as a medtech. At that
point all Station passes are cancelled, we finish loading cargo as quickly as
possible, and we leave."
Thorne grinned in satisfaction. "A pick-up. Very good. I assume we're being
well-paid?"
"Very. If he arrives at his destination alive. The man happens to be the top
research geneticist of House Bharaputra's Laboratories. He's been offered
asylum by a planetary government capable of protecting him from the long arms
of Baron Luigi Bharaputra's enforcers. His soon-to-be-former employer is
expected to be highly irate at the lack of a month's notice. We are being paid
to deliver him to his new masters alive and not, ah, forcibly debriefed of all
his trade secrets.
"Since House Bharaputra could probably buy and sell the whole Dendarii Free
Mercenary Fleet twice over out of petty cash, I would prefer we not have to
deal with Baron Luigi's enforcers either. So we shall be innocent suckers. All
we did was hire a bloody medtech, sir. And we shall be irate ourselves when he
deserts after we arrive at fleet rendezvous off Escobar."
"Sounds good to me," conceded Thorne. "Simple."
"So I trust," Miles sighed hopefully. Why, after all, shouldn't things run to
plan, just this once?
* * *
The purchasing offices and display areas for House Fell's lethal wares were [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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