Ethan of Athos by Lois McMaster Bujold

plump, bored-looking young woman on duty eating little fried morsels of something from a bag.
    “I'd like to rent a vacuum storage locker,” Quinn announced.
    “This is for Stationers, ma'am,” the counter girl began, after a hungry, wistful look at the mercenary woman's face. “If you go up to Transients' Lounge, you can get --”
    Quinn slapped an ID down on the counter. “A cubic meter will do, and I want it in removable plastic. Clean plastic, mind you.”
    The counter girl glanced at the ID. “Ah. Oh.” She shuffled off, and returned a few minutes later with a big plastic-lined case.
    The mercenary woman signed and thumbprinted, and turned to Ethan. “Let's lay them in nicely, eh? Impress the cook, when he thaws 'em out.”
    They packed the newts in neat rows. The counter girl, looking on, wrinkled her nose, then shrugged and returned to her comconsole where the holovid was displaying something that looked suspiciously more like play than work.
    They were just in time, Ethan gauged; some of their amphibian victims were beginning to twitch. He almost felt worse about them than he did about Okita. The counter girl bore the box off.
    “They won't suffer long, will they?” Ethan asked, looking back over his shoulder.
    Commander Quinn snorted. “I should die so quick. They're going into the biggest freezer in the universe -- outside. I think I really will ship them back to Admiral Naismith, later, when things calm down.”
    “'Things,'“ echoed Ethan. “Quite. I think you and I should have a talk about 'things'.” His mouth set mulishly.
    Hers turned up on one side. “Heart to heart,” she agreed cordially.

Chapter Six
    After sneaking the float pallet back to its docking bay, Commander Quinn brought him by a roundabout route to a hostel room not much larger than Ethan's own. This hostel was, Ethan was dimly aware, in yet another section of Transients' Lounge, although he was not quite sure where they had recrossed that unmarked border. Quinn had dropped behind several times, or parked him abruptly in some cul-de-sac while she scouted ahead, or once wandered off quite casual-seeming, her arm draped across the shoulders of some uniformed Stationer acquaintance as she gesticulated gaily with her free hand. Ethan prayed she knew what she was doing.
    She at any rate seemed to feel he had been successfully smuggled to some kind of home base, for she relaxed visibly when the hostel room doors sealed shut behind them, kicking off her boots and stretching and diving for the room service console.
    “Here. Real beer.” She handed him a foaming tumbler, after pausing to squirt something into it from her Dendarii issue medkit. “Imported. '
    The aroma made his mouth water, but he stood suspiciously, without raising it to his lips. “What did you put in it?”
    “Vitamins. Look, see?” She snapped a squirt out of the air from the same vial, and washed it down with a long swallow from her own tumbler. “You're safe here for now. Drink, eat, wash, what-you-will.”
    He glanced longingly toward the bathroom. “Won't double use show up on the computer monitors? What if someone asks questions?”
    She smirked. “It will show that Commander Quinn is entertaining a handsome Stationer acquaintance in her room, at length. Nobody'd dare ask anything. Relax.”
    The implications were anything but relaxing, but Ethan was by that time ready to risk his life for a shave; his stubbled chin was perilously close to pretending to paternal honors to which he had no right.
    The bathroom, alas, had no second exit. He gave up and drank his beer while he washed. If Millisor and Rau had not found useful intelligence in him, he doubted Commander Quinn could either, no matter what she'd doctored his drink with.
    He was horrified by the haggard face that stared back at him from the mirror. Sandpaper chin, red-rimmed eyes, skin blotched and puffy -- no patron in his right mind would trust his infant to that ruffian. Fortunately, a few