Ethan of Athos by Lois McMaster Bujold

gets loose, and gangs up on the six of you?”
    Ethan twisted his head around; it was the mercenary woman, Commander Quinn. She bounced lightly on her feet, head cocked alertly.
    Green-coveralls swore reverently under his breath; One-track just swore. “Come on, Zed,” said Green-coveralls, laying a hand on his comrade's arm, although never taking his eyes from the woman's face, “That's enough, I'm thinking.”
    One-track shook himself free. “And what's this dirt-sucker to you, Sweetie?” he snapped.
    One corner of the woman's carved mouth twisted up; Blue-coverall's lips parted in entrancement. “Suppose I say I'm his military advisor?” she said.
    “Fag-loving women,” One-track swore, “are worse than the fags themselves --” and continued in crude-ness.
    “Zed,” muttered Blue-coveralls, “can it. She's not a tech, she's a troop. Combat vet -- look at her insignia --” There was a stir in the back of the room, as several neutral observers made prudent exits.
    “All drunks are a pain,” drawled the woman to the air, “but aggressive drunks are just plain disgusting.”
    One-track shoved toward her, mouthing confused obscenities. She waited in stillness until he crossed some invisible boundary. There was a sudden buzz and a flash of blue light. Ethan realized as the weapon spun in her hand and melted soundlessly back into its holster that the pause had been for stunner nimbus; all others in the group were out of range and untouched.
    “Take a nap,” she sighed. She glanced up at the two men still holding Ethan. “That your friend?” she nodded to the prone One-track, unconscious on the floor. “You should be more choosy. Friends like that can get you killed.”
    Ethan was hastily dropped. His knees buckled as he folded over his aching belly. The mercenary woman pulled him back to his feet. “C'mon, pilgrim. Let me take you back where you belong.”
    “I should have said, 'Why, are you missing yours?',” Ethan decided. “That's what I should have said to him. Or maybe --”
    Commander Quinn's lips curved. Ethan wondered irritably why everyone around here seemed to find Athosians so amusing, except for the ones who acted like he was offering them a dose of leprosy. A sudden new fear put him so off-balance he very nearly clutched the mercenary's arm. “Oh, God the Father. Are those constables?”
    A pair of men were nearing them in the corridor. Their uniforms were pine green slashed with sky blue, and an intimidating array of equipment hung from their utility belts. Ethan felt a sudden stab of guilt. “Maybe I should turn myself in -- get it over with. I did assault that man --”
    Commander Quinn's mouth quivered with amusement. “Not unless you're incubating some rare new plant virus under your fingernails. Those guys are Biocontrol -- the ecology cops. Underfoot all over Kline Station,” she paused to exchange polite nods with the men, who passed on, and added under her breath, “bunch of compulsive hand-washers.” She continued after a meditative moment, “Don't cross them, though. They have unlimited powers of search and seizure -- you could find yourself being forcibly deloused, with no appeal.”
    Ethan thought about that. “I suppose station ecology is much less resilient than planetary.”
    “Balanced on a wire, between fire and ice,” she agreed. “Some places have religion. Here we have safety drills. By the way, if you ever see a patch of frost forming anywhere but a docking bay, report it at once.”
    They re-entered Transients' Lounge. Her eyes were too penetrating, edgy with seriousness, for her quirking mouth, and they made Ethan hideously uneasy. “Hope that little incident doesn't put you off Stationers, ' she said. “What say I take you to dinner, to make up for my fellow citizens' bad manners?”
    Was this some sort of proposition, a ploy to get him alone and helpless? He edged farther from her, as she paced softly beside him like a predatory cat.
    “I -- I'm not