The interrogation is, as he'd expected, illuminating.
They know who he is-- well, they know who Naismith is, which is well enough-- although they hadn't at first, he thinks. Miles suspects they make a habit of jumping whatever poor sods land just as a matter of policy, but he also suspects there's not too many that do it. He's likely among the first. (He does enjoy being unprecedented, he thinks irreverently as he gets a smack across the jaw for his trouble and he spits out blood, thankful his jaw hadn't cracked. What a bastard that injury would be.) While they'd let him cool his heels, they'd searched the net for information, and eventually, two and two had equaled four.
It left them afraid. Or at least they should be afraid, by his calculations, given the sort of martial force that the Dendarii could bring to bear against theirs, rather more primitive and weaponry limited to only what they'd had to bargain for. Which would all be hard bargains; galactics aren't much interested in the kind of wares they'd have to trade. Miles rather thinks his calculations are correct, too, by the way they aim their brutality. Threatens and violence, for sure, but he's careful not to call their bluffs on threats of death -- despots are always too eager to foolishly, erroneously kill their enemies even when leaving them alive is the better recourse.
Instead, he weaves all kinds of sweet, desperate promises about what the Dendarii could trade to have him back. He's their admiral, no, really, he assures them, they'll give whatever he says over comms, all manner of weaponry, and they're used to organizing hostage exchanges, we can all get what we want. Miles isn't faking the desperation, though he is faking the intent. There's not going to be a hostage trade; if they let him on the comms with Elli, all she'll get is the code words for retrieval and resistance manageable. When they throw him back in his cell, his arm is broken-- his ulna, he thinks, damn, because it's the left again, for maybe the fourth time in his life, he's not certain. That bone hasn't been replaced yet and it's certainly a familiar feeling. His breath comes raggedly and he pushes his way up the wall to his feet with his right hand, relieved to have it to shoot with, should the need arise.
Miles coughs, more of a hack than anything, and wipes the blood on his chin away. He's pathetically grateful to sit himself on the cot and rest his head against the smooth stone wall, looking up at the grate.
"I'm back," he sings out, audibly tired but determination threaded through there, strong, fierce. He has a real plan now. "Did you think of what you wanted from me, Lizzie girl?"
no subject
They know who he is-- well, they know who Naismith is, which is well enough-- although they hadn't at first, he thinks. Miles suspects they make a habit of jumping whatever poor sods land just as a matter of policy, but he also suspects there's not too many that do it. He's likely among the first. (He does enjoy being unprecedented, he thinks irreverently as he gets a smack across the jaw for his trouble and he spits out blood, thankful his jaw hadn't cracked. What a bastard that injury would be.) While they'd let him cool his heels, they'd searched the net for information, and eventually, two and two had equaled four.
It left them afraid. Or at least they should be afraid, by his calculations, given the sort of martial force that the Dendarii could bring to bear against theirs, rather more primitive and weaponry limited to only what they'd had to bargain for. Which would all be hard bargains; galactics aren't much interested in the kind of wares they'd have to trade. Miles rather thinks his calculations are correct, too, by the way they aim their brutality. Threatens and violence, for sure, but he's careful not to call their bluffs on threats of death -- despots are always too eager to foolishly, erroneously kill their enemies even when leaving them alive is the better recourse.
Instead, he weaves all kinds of sweet, desperate promises about what the Dendarii could trade to have him back. He's their admiral, no, really, he assures them, they'll give whatever he says over comms, all manner of weaponry, and they're used to organizing hostage exchanges, we can all get what we want. Miles isn't faking the desperation, though he is faking the intent. There's not going to be a hostage trade; if they let him on the comms with Elli, all she'll get is the code words for retrieval and resistance manageable. When they throw him back in his cell, his arm is broken-- his ulna, he thinks, damn, because it's the left again, for maybe the fourth time in his life, he's not certain. That bone hasn't been replaced yet and it's certainly a familiar feeling. His breath comes raggedly and he pushes his way up the wall to his feet with his right hand, relieved to have it to shoot with, should the need arise.
Miles coughs, more of a hack than anything, and wipes the blood on his chin away. He's pathetically grateful to sit himself on the cot and rest his head against the smooth stone wall, looking up at the grate.
"I'm back," he sings out, audibly tired but determination threaded through there, strong, fierce. He has a real plan now. "Did you think of what you wanted from me, Lizzie girl?"