Young Miles by Lois McMaster Bujold Page B

right . . . I'll overlook it this time, but I want you to talk to these guys. I figure you owe me. All right? Anyway, they're Barrayarans."
    Baz glanced up at them sharply, his expression a strange mixture of hunger and dismay. His lips formed a silent word. Miles read it, Home. I'm silhouetted, thought Miles; let's get down where he can see the light on my face. He picked his way down beside Hathaway.
    Baz stared at him. "You're no Barrayaran," he said flatly.
    "I'm half Betan," Miles replied, feeling no desire to go into his medical history just then. "But I was raised on Barrayar. It's home."
    "Home," whispered the man, barely audibly.
    "You're a long way from home." Miles upended a plastic casing from something-or-other—it had some wires hanging out of it, giving it a sad disembowelled air—and seated himself. Bothari took up position above on the rubble within comfortable pouncing distance. "Did you get stuck here or something? Do you, ah—need some help getting home?"
    "No." The man glanced away, frowning. His fire had burned down. He placed a metal grill from an air conditioner over it and laid his fish on top.
    Hathaway eyed these preparations with fascination. "What are you going to do with that dead goldfish?"
    "Eat it."
    Hathaway looked revolted. "Look, mister—all you have to do is report to a Shelter and get Carded, and you can have all the protein slices you want—any flavor, clean and fresh from the vats. Nobody has to eat a dead animal on this planet, really. Where'd you get it, anyway?"
    Baz replied uneasily, "Out of a fountain."
    Hathaway gasped in horror. "Those displays belong to the Silica Zoo! You can't eat an exhibit!"
    "There were lots of them. I didn't think anybody would miss one. It wasn't stealing. I caught it."
    Miles rubbed his chin thoughtfully, gave a little upward jerk of his head, and pulled Pilot Officer Mayhew's green bottle, which he had brought along on a last-minute impulse, from under his jacket. Baz started at the movement, then relaxed when he saw it was no weapon. By Barrayaran etiquette, Miles took a swallow first—he made it a small one, this time—wiped the mouthpiece on his sleeve, and offered it to the thin man. "Drink, with dinner? It's good—makes you feel less hungry—dries up your sinuses, too. Tastes like horse-piss and honey."
    Baz frowned, but took the bottle. "Thanks." He took a drink, and added in a strangled whisper, "Thanks!"
    Baz slipped his dinner onto a cover plate from a tube-car wheel, and sat cross-legged amid the junk to pick out the bones. "Care for any?"
    "No, thanks, just had dinner."
    "Dear God, I should think not!" cried Hathaway.
    "Ah," said Miles. "Changed my mind. Just a taste . . ."
    Baz held out a morsel on the point of his knife; Bothari's hands twitched. Miles lipped it off, camp-fashion, and chomped it down with a sardonic smile at Hathaway. Baz waved the bottle at Bothari.
    "Would your friend . . . ?"
    "He can't," excused Miles. "He's on duty."
    "Bodyguard," whispered Baz. He looked again at Miles with that strange expression, fear, and something else. "What the hell are you?"
    "Nothing you need be afraid of. Whatever you're hiding from, it isn't me. You can have my word on that, if you wish."
    "Vor," breathed Baz. "You're Vor."
    "Well, yes. And what the hell are you?"
    "Nobody." He picked rapidly at his fish. Miles wondered how long it had been since his last meal.
    "Hard, to be nobody, in a place like this," Miles observed. "Everybody has a number, everybody has a place to be—not many interstices, to be nobody in. It must take a lot of effort and ingenuity."
    "You said it," Baz agreed around a mouthful of goldfish. "This is the worst place I've ever been. You've got to keep moving around all the time."
    "You do know," said Miles tentatively, "the Barrayaran Embassy will help you get home, if you want. Of course, you have to pay it back later, and they're pretty strict about collecting—they're not in the business of giving