Baz sprang to his feet. "You're Service Security! You twisty little bastard—"
"Sit down," Miles overrode him, not stirring. "I'm not anybody. I'm just not quite as good at it as you are."
Baz hesitated. Miles studied him seriously, all the pleasure
suddenly gone out of the excursion in a wash of cold ambiguity. "I don't suppose—Yeoman?—no. Lieutenant?"
"Yes," growled the man.
"An officer. Yes." Miles chewed his lip, disturbed. "Was it in the heat?"
Baz grimaced reluctantly. "Technically."
"Hm." A deserter. Strange beyond comprehension, for a man to trade the envied splendor of the Service for the worm of fear, riding in his belly like a parasite. Was he running from an act of cowardice?
Or another crime? Or an error, some horrible, lethal mistake?
Technically, Miles had a duty to help nail the fellow for Service
Security. But he had come here tonight to help the man, not destroy him. . . .
"I don't understand," said Hathaway. "Has he committed a crime?"
"Yes. A bloody serious one. Desertion in the heat of battle," said Miles. "If he gets extradited home, the penalty's quartering.
Technically."
"That doesn't sound so bad." Hathaway shrugged. "He's been quartered in my recycling center for two months. It could hardly be worse. What's the problem?"
"Quartering," said Miles. "Uh—not domiciled. Cut in four pieces."
Hathaway stared, shocked. "But that would kill him!" He looked around, and wilted under the triple, unified, and exasperated glares of the three Barrayarans.
"Betans," said Baz disgustedly. "I can't stand Betans."
Hathaway muttered something under his breath; Miles caught, "—
bloodthirsty barbarians . . ."
"So if you're not Service Security," Baz finished, sitting back down,
"you may as well shove off. There's nothing you can do for me."
"I'm going to have to do something," Miles said.
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"Why?"
"I'm—I'm afraid I've inadvertently done you a disservice, Mr., Mr.—you may as well tell me your name . . ."
"Jesek."
"Mr. Jesek. You see, I'm, um, under the scrutiny of Security
myself. Just by meeting you, I've endangered your cover. I'm sorry."
Jesek paled. "Why is Service Security watching you?"
"Not the S.S. Imperial Security, I'm afraid."
The breath went out of the deserter as from a body blow, and his
face drained utterly. He bent over, his head pressed to his knees, as if to counteract a wave of faintness. A muffled whimper—"God . . ." He stared up at Miles. "What did you do, boy?"
Miles said sharply, "I haven't asked you that question, Mr. Jesek!"
The deserter mumbled some apology. I can't let him know who I
am, thought Miles, or he'll be off like a shot and run straight into my Security so-called safety net—even as it is, Lt. Croye or his minions from the Barrayaran Embassy Security staff are going to start looking this guy over. They'll go wild when they find he's the invisible man. No later than tomorrow, if they give him the routine check. I've just killed this man—no! "What did you do in the Service, before?" Miles groped for time and thought.