The smell of iron and leather brings back a wave of sense memory, tangled in the scent of blood, and her eyes -- they take hold of him even more firmly, seizing up his chest. He has no choice but to return that look, that intensity reflected in his eyes but wholly his own. If she had any doubts about him and his intent, if she trusts his eyes, she'll see that he holds none. Miles draws in a breath to rein it in and he holds up a hand, clearing his throat as she presses the sharp edge of the sword against the pilot.
"If I meant you any harm, I wouldn't have invited you onto my ship. And I think we're past the point where that's necessary, eh?" He waves that hand at a couple of his officers, who step forward. "Chang, Tate, take this man to C deck, will you? I'll be along to deal with him when I'm done here." Not to holding cells -- Miles isn't sure what, exactly, the man has personally done wrong, and besides that, the Dendarii sure as hell aren't law enforcement unless someone else is paying them to be. If the man will consent to a little fast-penta interrogation and exonerate himself of any real wrongdoing, Miles will just have him dropped off at the next hub and let him sort himself out.
"You three," he says, turning his attention on the med techs, "get anyone in critical condition on float palettes and take them to sickbay immediately, and unless the fleet surgeon is wrist-deep in someone else's torso, she is to put aside whatever else she is doing and get in the OR. You can tell her that the orders come from me directly. Everyone else, escort the rest of the crew to sickbay and tend to them."
He looks back up at their leader, looking like she's just stepped out of a damned holovid, and he doesn't offer her his arm, because that'd be too damn Barrayaran, but there's an air of slightly displaced courtesy about him nonetheless. "If you're not in critical condition yourself, I'd like to escort you personally, Manikarnika."
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"If I meant you any harm, I wouldn't have invited you onto my ship. And I think we're past the point where that's necessary, eh?" He waves that hand at a couple of his officers, who step forward. "Chang, Tate, take this man to C deck, will you? I'll be along to deal with him when I'm done here." Not to holding cells -- Miles isn't sure what, exactly, the man has personally done wrong, and besides that, the Dendarii sure as hell aren't law enforcement unless someone else is paying them to be. If the man will consent to a little fast-penta interrogation and exonerate himself of any real wrongdoing, Miles will just have him dropped off at the next hub and let him sort himself out.
"You three," he says, turning his attention on the med techs, "get anyone in critical condition on float palettes and take them to sickbay immediately, and unless the fleet surgeon is wrist-deep in someone else's torso, she is to put aside whatever else she is doing and get in the OR. You can tell her that the orders come from me directly. Everyone else, escort the rest of the crew to sickbay and tend to them."
He looks back up at their leader, looking like she's just stepped out of a damned holovid, and he doesn't offer her his arm, because that'd be too damn Barrayaran, but there's an air of slightly displaced courtesy about him nonetheless. "If you're not in critical condition yourself, I'd like to escort you personally, Manikarnika."