generations. You can believe I'll make every effort to cover that note before I'll let my home ground fall from my hands—"
Calhoun rubbed his chin irritably. "Cost plus twenty-five percent,"
he suggested.
"Ten percent."
"Twenty."
"Ten, or I'll let you deal directly with Pilot Officer Mayhew."
"All right," groaned Calhoun, "ten percent."
"Done!"
It was not quite that easy, of course. But thanks to the efficiency of the Betans' planetary information network, a transaction that would have taken days on Barrayar was completed in less than an hour,
right from Mayhew's control room. Miles was cannily reluctant to give up the tactical bargaining advantage possession of the toggle box gave them, and Mayhew, after his first astonishment had worn off, became silent and loath to leave.
"Look, kid," he spoke suddenly, about halfway through the complicated transaction. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, but—
but it's just too late. You understand, when I get downside, they're not going to just be laughing this off. Security'll be waiting at the docking bay, with a patrol from the Mental Health Board right beside 'em.
They'll slap a stun-net over me so fast—you'll see me in a month or two, walking around smiling. You're always smiling, after the M.H.B.
gets done . . ." He shook his head helplessly. "It's just too late."
"It's never too late while you're breathing," snapped Miles. He did the free-fall equivalent of pacing the room, shoving off from one wall, turning in midair, and shoving off from the opposite wall, a few dozen turns, thinking.
"I have an idea," he said at last. "I'll wager it would buy time, time enough at least to come up with something better—trouble is, since
you're not Barrayaran, you're not going to understand what you're
doing, and it's serious stuff."
Mayhew looked thoroughly baffled. "Huh?"
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"It's like this." Thump, spin, turn, straighten, thump. "If you were to swear fealty to me as an Armsman simple, taking me for your liege lord—it's the most straightforward of our oath relationships—I might
be able to include you under my Class III diplomatic immunity.
Anyway, I know I could if you were a Barrayaran subject. Of course, you're a Betan citizen. In any case, I'm pretty sure we could tie up a pack of lawyers and several days, trying to figure out which laws take precedence. I would be legally obligated for your bed, board, dress, armament—I suppose this ship could be classed as your armament—
your protection, in the event of challenge by any other liegeman—that hardly applies, here on Beta Colony—oh, there's a passel of stuff,
about your family, and—do you have a family, by the way?"
Mayhew shook his head.
"That simplifies things." Thump, spin, turn, straighten, thump.