Thirty. Hm. Just a few years shy of himself, then. The flinch doesn't escape Piotr's notice, but it hardly fazes him, either. His lips are still pressed thin as he does the mental math. There isn't much to do. For all this man claims to have done, he must've led an exciting life -- as a mutant prole, no less. It doesn't sound unlikely so much as it sounds unrealistic. The Oserans could be the name of a real mercenary outfit, they could be entirely fictional; Piotr's well aware he has no way of ascertaining the truth of it, so it's a moot point.

"Quite a career for someone like you," Piotr says dryly, and there's no ambiguity as to what he means by someone like you. "And impressive indeed, for you to have launched such a career from the very dregs of our society. And with so little to start with, belike. One wonders how you could have obtained passage off planet when such a luxury was afforded only to diplomatic and military dispatches."

Yeah, Miles, your shit stinks and Piotr doesn't exactly have a head cold here. There's clearly truth to some of it, but Piotr's no village idiot.