"Your main job here," Ungari had told Miles, "will be to giving anyone watching us something more interesting to watch than me. Circulate. I doubt you'll need to expend any special effort to conspicuous. Develop your cover identity—with luck, you may even pick up a contact or two who'll be worthy of further study. Though doubt you'll run across anything of great value immediately; it doesn't work that way."
Now, Miles laid his samples case open on his bed and rechecked them. Just a traveling salesman, that's me. A dozen hand weapons, power packs removed, gleamed wickedly back at him. A row of vids described larger and more interesting weapons systems. An more interesting—you might even say, "arresting"—collection of tiny disks nestled concealed in Miles's jacket. Death. I can get it for you wholesale.
Miles's bodyguard met him at the docking hatch. Why, oh why had Illyan assigned Sergeant Overkill to this mission? Same reason he'd sent him to Kyril Island, because he was trusted, no doubt, but it embarrassed Miles to be working with a man who'd once arrested him. What did Overholt make of Miles, by now? Happily, the big man was the silent type.
Overholt was dressed as informally and eclectically as Miles himself, though with safety boots in place of sandals. He looked exactly like somebody's bodyguard trying to look like a tourist. Much the sort of man small-time arms dealer Victor Rotha would logically employ. Both functional and decorative, he slices, dices, and chops. … By themselves, either Miles or Overholt would be memorable. Together, well . . . Ungari was right. They needn't worry about being overlooked.
Miles led the way through that docking tube and into Pol Six. This docking spoke funneled into a Customs area, where Miles's sample case and person were carefully examined, and Overholt had to produce registration for his stunner. From there they had free run of the transfer station facilities, but for certain guarded corridors leading into the, as it were, militarized zones. Those areas, Ungari had made clear, were his business, not Miles's.
Miles, in good time for his first appointment, strolled slowly, enjoying the sensation of being on a space station. The place wasn't as free-wheeling as Beta Colony, but without question he moved in the midst of mainstream galactic technoculture. Not like poor half-backwards Barrayar. The brittle artificial environment emitted its own whiff of danger, a whiff that could balloon instantly into claustrophobic terror in the event of a sudden depressurization emergency. A concourse lined with shops, hostels, and eating facilities made a central meeting area.
A curious trio idled just across the busy concourse from Miles. A big man dressed in loose clothing ideal for concealing weapons scanned the area uneasily. A professional counterpart of Sergeant Overkill's, no doubt. He and Overholt spotted each other and exchanged grim glances, carefully ignored each other after that. The bland man he guarded faded into near-invisibility beside his woman.
She was short, but astonishingly intense, slight figure and white-blonde hair cropped close to her head giving her an odd elfin look. Her black jumpsuit seemed shot with electric sparks, flowing over her skin like water, evening-wear in the day-cycle. Thin-heeled black shoes boosted her a few futile centimeters. Her lips were colored wood-carmine to match the shimmering scarf that looped across alabaster collarbones to cascade from each shoulder, framing the bare white skin of her back. She looked . . . expensive.
Her eye caught Miles's fascinated stare. Her chin lifted, and she stared back coldly.
"Victor Rotha?" The voice at Miles's elbow made him jump. Ah … Mr. Liga?" Miles, wheeling, hazarded in return. Rabbit-like pale features, protruding lip, black hair; this was the man who claimed he wished to improve the armament of his security guards at his asteroid mining facility. Sure. How—and where—had Ungari scraped Liga up? Miles was not sure he wanted to know.
"I've arranged a private room for us to talk," Liga smiled, tilting his head toward a nearby hostel entrance. "Eh," Liga added, "looks like everybody's doing business this morning." He nodded toward the trio across the concourse, who were now a quartet and moving off. The scarves snapped along like banners, floating in the quick-stepping blonde's wake.
"Who was that woman?" asked Miles.
"I don't know," said Liga. "But the man they're following is your; main competition here. The agent of House Fell, the Jacksonian armaments specialists." He looked more like a middle-aged businessman type, at least from the back.
"Pol lets the Jacksonians operate here?" Miles asked. "I thought tensions were high."
"Between Pol, Aslund, and Vervain, yes," said Liga. "The Jacksonian consortium is loudly claiming neutrality. They hope to profit from all sides. But this isn't the best place to talk politics. Let's go, eh?" '
As Miles expected, Liga settled them in what was obviously otherwise-unoccupied hostel room, rented for the purpose, Miles began his memorized pitch, working through the hand-weapons baffle-gabbing about available inventory and delivery dates.
"I'd hoped," said Liga, "for something a little more . . . authoritative."
"I have another selection of samples aboard my ship," Miles explained. "I didn't want to trouble Pol customs with them. But I can give you an overview by vid."
Miles trotted out the heavy weapons manuals. "This vid is educational purposes only, of course, as these weapons are of a grade illegal for a private person to own in Pol local space."
"In Pol space, yes," Liga agreed. "But Pol's law doesn't run in Hegen Hub. Yet. All you have to do is cast off from Pol Six and take little run out beyond the ten-thousand-kilometer traffic control to conduct any sort of business you want, perfectly legally. The problem comes in delivering the cargo back in to Pol local space."
"Difficult deliveries are one of my specialties," Miles assured him. "For a small surcharge, of course."
"Eh. Good . . ." Liga flicked fast-forward through the vidilogue. "These heavy-duty plasma arcs, now . . . how do they compare with the cannon-grade nerve disruptors?"
Miles shrugged. "Depends entirely upon whether you want to blow away people alone, or people and property both. I can make you a very good price on the nerve disruptors." He named a figure in Pol credits.
"I got a better quote than that, on a device of the same kilowattage, lately," Liga mentioned disinterestedly.
"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."