What a delightful accomplice. She did pick that up quickly, didn't she? Miles rubs his hands together.
Too bad the distance is too far through the vent to murmur, what with the way it warps sound just slightly, but Miles still sounds mild as he says, "Yes, it would be wretched, wouldn't it. --Ah, here's my company, as expected." Miles claps his hands once as he hears the unmistakable sounds of boots coming down the corridor, two sets, and hops off the bed toward the door.
His eyes gleam with the satisfaction of having gotten his way, and if this is likely to end with pain for him, well, it's not the first time and Miles has done worse for the sake of what he wants. He has a plan, or a vaguely sketched outline of a one, which makes it more solid to his way of thinking. Miles has always preferred winging it. In any case, they can't afford to kill him until they know what kind of wrath that would bring down on them; they have no way of detecting who all is out there in space laying in wait, planet-bound as they are. That's not something they'd ever traded for, he damn well knows, likely because no one would give it to them. The Dendarii hadn't received so much as a hailing contact in warning as they'd approached.
"Lizzie," he calls back, just before they're close enough to wrench the door open and drag him along, "hold tight, I have to go entertain my visitors. I'll be back, don't worry. Think about what you'd like for your birthday for me, eh?"
It's the best he can manage for reassurance without giving away the game completely, that he's expecting to be rescued, and it's half serious as well. What exactly is she looking for? One small corner of his brain is already pondering if the Dendarii is a large enough force to blockade New London from receiving weapons shipments.
no subject
Too bad the distance is too far through the vent to murmur, what with the way it warps sound just slightly, but Miles still sounds mild as he says, "Yes, it would be wretched, wouldn't it. --Ah, here's my company, as expected." Miles claps his hands once as he hears the unmistakable sounds of boots coming down the corridor, two sets, and hops off the bed toward the door.
His eyes gleam with the satisfaction of having gotten his way, and if this is likely to end with pain for him, well, it's not the first time and Miles has done worse for the sake of what he wants. He has a plan, or a vaguely sketched outline of a one, which makes it more solid to his way of thinking. Miles has always preferred winging it. In any case, they can't afford to kill him until they know what kind of wrath that would bring down on them; they have no way of detecting who all is out there in space laying in wait, planet-bound as they are. That's not something they'd ever traded for, he damn well knows, likely because no one would give it to them. The Dendarii hadn't received so much as a hailing contact in warning as they'd approached.
"Lizzie," he calls back, just before they're close enough to wrench the door open and drag him along, "hold tight, I have to go entertain my visitors. I'll be back, don't worry. Think about what you'd like for your birthday for me, eh?"
It's the best he can manage for reassurance without giving away the game completely, that he's expecting to be rescued, and it's half serious as well. What exactly is she looking for? One small corner of his brain is already pondering if the Dendarii is a large enough force to blockade New London from receiving weapons shipments.