"This is really remarkable, Victor. How did you come by it?"
"A happy accident."
"How many can you supply?"
"A strictly limited number. Say, fifty. I'm not a manufacturer. Liga did mention the price?"
"I thought it high."
"If you can find another supplier who offers these for less, I will be happy to match his price and knock off ten percent." Miles managed to bow sitting down.
She made a faint amused sound, down in her throat. "The volume offered is too low."
"There are several ways you could profit from even a small number of these, if you got into the trade early enough. Such as selling working models to interested governments. I mean to have a share of that profit, before the market is saturated and the price drops. You could too."
"Why don't you? Sell them directly to governments, that is."
"What makes you think I haven't?" Miles smiled. "But—consider my routes out of this area. I came in past Barrayar and Pol. I must exit via either Jackson's Whole or the Cetagandan Empire. Unfortunately, through either route I run a high risk of being relieved of this particular cargo without any compensation whatsoever." For that matter, where had Barrayar obtained its working model of the shield-suit? Was there a real Victor Rotha, and where was he now? Where had Illyan gotten their ship?
"So, you carry them with you?"
"I didn't say that."
"Hm." She smiled. "Can you deliver one tonight?"
"What size?"
"Small." One long-nailed finger traced a line down her body, from breast to thigh, to indicate exactly how small.
Miles sighed mournfully. "Unfortunately, these were sized for the average-to-large combat soldier. Cutting one down is a considerable technical challenge—one which I am in fact still working on myself."
"How thoughtless of the manufacturer."
"I entirely agree, Citizen Nu."
She looked at him more carefully. Did her smile grow slightly more genuine?
"Anyway, I prefer to sell them in wholesale lots. If your organization isn't financially up to it—"
"An arrangement might yet be made."
"Promptly, I trust. I'll be moving on soon."
She murmured absently, "Perhaps not . . ." then looked up with a quick frown. "What's your next stop?"
Ungari had to file a public flight plan anyway. "Aslund."
"Hm . . . yes, we must come to some arrangement. Absolutely." Were those blue flickers what were called bedroom eyes? The effect was lulling, almost hypnotic. I finally meet a woman who's barely taller than I am, and I don't even know which side she's on. He of all men ought not to mistake short for weak or helpless.
"Can I meet your boss?"
"Who?" Her brows lowered.
"The man I saw you both with this morning."
". . . oh. So, you've already seen him."
"Set me up a meeting. Let's do serious business. Betan dollars, remember."
"Pleasure before business, surely." Her breath puffed against his ear, a faint spicy fog.
Was she trying to soften him up? What for? Ungari had said, don't break cover. Surely it would be in character for Victor Rotha to take all he could get. Plus ten percent. "You don't have to do this," he managed to choke out. His heart was beating entirely too fast. "I don't do everything for business reasons," she purred. Why, indeed, should she bother to seduce a sleazy little gun runner? What pleasure was in it for her? What was in it besides pleasure for her? Maybe she likes me. Miles winced, picturing himself offering that explanation to Ungari. Her arm circled his neck. His hand, unwilled, rose to stroke the fine pelt of her hair. A highly aesthetic tactile experience, just as he'd imagined. . . .
Her hand tightened. In pure nervous reflex, Miles leapt to his feet.
And stood there feeling like an idiot. It had been a caress, not incipient strangulation. The angle was all wrong for attack leverage.
She flung herself back in the seat, slim arm stretching along the top of the cushions. "Victor!" Her voice was amused, her brow arched. "I wasn't going to bite your neck."
His face was hot. "I-have-to-go-now." He cleared his throat to bring his voice back down to its lower register. His hand swooped to pluck the vid disk from the player. Her hand leapt toward it, then fell back languidly, pretending disinterest. Miles hit the door comm.
Overholt was there at once, in the sliding door aperture. Miles's gut eased. If his bodyguard had been gone, Miles would have known this at once for some kind of set-up. Too late, of course.
"Maybe later," Miles gabbled. "After you've taken delivery. We could get together." Delivery of a nonexistent cargo? What was he saying?
She shook her head in disbelief. Her laugh followed him down the corridor. It had a brittle edge.
Miles lurched awake when the lights snapped on in his cabin. Ungari, fully dressed, was in the doorway. Behind him their jump pilot, wearing only his underwear and a sleep-stunned expression, jittered uncertainly.
"Dress later," Ungari snarled to the pilot. "Just get us free of the dock and run us out beyond the ten-thousand-kilometer limit. I'll be up to help set course in a few minutes." He added half to himself, "As soon as I know where the devil we're going. Move."
The pilot fled. Ungari strode to Miles's bedside. "Vorkosigan, what the hell happened in that hostel room?"
Miles squeezed his eyes against the glares of both the lights and Ungari, and suppressed an impulse to hide under the covers from both. "Ha?" His mouth was dry with sleep.
"I've just gotten an advance warning—bare minutes advance warning—of an arrest order being put out by Pol Six civil security for Victor Rotha."
"But I never touched the lady!" Miles protested, dizzied.
"Liga's body was found murdered in your meeting room."
"What!"
"The security lab has just finished timing it—to about when you met. Were to meet. The arrest order will be on the net in minutes, and we'll be locked in here."
"But I didn't. I never even saw Liga, only his boss, Livia Nu. I mean—if I'd done any such thing, I'd have reported it to you immediately, sir!"
"Thank you," said Ungari dryly. "I'm glad to know that." His voice harshened. "You're being framed, of course."
"Who—" Yes. There could have been another, grimmer way for Livia Nu to have relieved Liga of that top secret vid disk. But if she wasn't Liga's superior, or even a member of his Polian criminal organization at all, who was she? "We need to know more, sir! This could be the start of something."
"This could be the end of our mission. Damn! And now we can't retreat back through Pol to Barrayar. Cut off. Where next?" Ungari paced, evidently thinking aloud. "I want to go to Aslund. Its extradition treaty with Pol has broken down at present, but . . . then there are your mercenary complications. Now that they've connected Rotha to Naismith. Thanks to your carelessness."
"From what Chodak said, I don't think Admiral Naismith would exactly be welcomed back with open arms," Miles agreed reluctantly.
"Jackson's Whole's consortium station has no extradition treaty with anyone. This cover's gone completely sour. Rotha and Naismith, both useless. It has to be the Consortium. I'll ditch this ship there, go underground, and double back to Aslund on my own."
"What about me, sir?"
"You and Overholt will have to split off and take the long way
home."
Home. Home in disgrace. "Sir . . . running away looks bad. Suppose we sat tight, and cleared Rotha of the charges? We wouldn't be cut off any more, and Rotha would still be a viable cover. It's possible we're being hustled into doing just this, cutting and running."