Part 3 (1/2)

Quinn too was smiling, but one perfect eyebrow curved in a certain dry irony. ”It's lovely, but if I was reading between the lines correctly, I thought what Barrayaran Imperial Security really wanted was for the Cetagandan military to be tied up tied up in the guerilla war on Marilac. Indefinitely. Draining Cetagandan attention away from Barrayaran borders and jump points.” in the guerilla war on Marilac. Indefinitely. Draining Cetagandan attention away from Barrayaran borders and jump points.”

”They didn't put that in writing.” Miles's lips drew back wolfishly. ”All Simon said was, 'Help the Marilacans as opportunity presents.' That was the standing order, in so many words.”

”But you knew d.a.m.n well what he really wanted.”

”Four b.l.o.o.d.y years was enough. I have not betrayed Barrayar. Nor anyone else.”

”Yeah? So if Simon Illyan is so much more Machiavellian than you are, how is it that your version prevailed? Someday, Miles, you are going to run out of hairs to split with those people. And then what will you do?”

He smiled, and shook his head, evading answer.

His elation over the news from Marilac still made him feel like he was walking in half-gravity when he arrived at his cabin aboard the Triumph Triumph. After a surrept.i.tious glance to be sure the corridor was unpeopled, he embraced and kissed Quinn, a deep kiss that was going to have to last them for a long while, and she went off to her own quarters. He slipped inside, and echoed the door's closing sigh with his own. Home again.

It was was home, for half his psyche, he reflected, tossing his flight bag onto his bed and heading directly for the shower. Ten years ago, Lord Miles Vorkosigan had invented the cover ident.i.ty of Admiral Naismith out of his head in a desperate moment, and frantically faked his way to temporary control of the hastily re-named Dendarii Mercenaries. Barrayaran Imperial Security had discovered the cover to be useful . . . no. Credit where it was due. He had persuaded, schemed, demonstrated, and coerced ImpSec into finding use for this cover. home, for half his psyche, he reflected, tossing his flight bag onto his bed and heading directly for the shower. Ten years ago, Lord Miles Vorkosigan had invented the cover ident.i.ty of Admiral Naismith out of his head in a desperate moment, and frantically faked his way to temporary control of the hastily re-named Dendarii Mercenaries. Barrayaran Imperial Security had discovered the cover to be useful . . . no. Credit where it was due. He had persuaded, schemed, demonstrated, and coerced ImpSec into finding use for this cover. Be careful what you pretend to be. You might become it. Be careful what you pretend to be. You might become it.

When had Admiral Naismith stopped being a pretense? Gradually, surely, but mostly since his mercenary mentor Commodore Tung had retired. Or perhaps the wily Tung had recognized before Miles had that his services in propping Miles up to his prematurely exalted rank were no longer required. Colored vid arrays of Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet organization bloomed in Miles's head as he showered. Personnel-equipment-administration-logistics-he knew every s.h.i.+p, every trooper, every shuttle and piece of ordnance, now. He knew how they fit together, what had to be done first, second, third, twentieth, to place a precisely calculated force at any point on the tactical fulcrum. This This was expertise, to be able to look at a s.h.i.+p like the was expertise, to be able to look at a s.h.i.+p like the Triumph Triumph and see with his mind's eye right through the walls to every engineering detail, every strength and vulnerability; to look at a commando squad, or a briefing table ringed with captains and captain-owners and know what each one would do or say before they knew it themselves. and see with his mind's eye right through the walls to every engineering detail, every strength and vulnerability; to look at a commando squad, or a briefing table ringed with captains and captain-owners and know what each one would do or say before they knew it themselves. I'm on top. Finally, I'm on top of it all. With this lever, I can move worlds. I'm on top. Finally, I'm on top of it all. With this lever, I can move worlds. He switched the shower to ”dry,” and turned in the blast of warm air. He left the bathroom still chortling under his breath. He switched the shower to ”dry,” and turned in the blast of warm air. He left the bathroom still chortling under his breath. I love it. I love it.

His chortle died away in puzzlement when he unlatched the door to his uniform cupboard, and found it bare. Had his batman taken them all off for cleaning or repairs? His bewilderment grew as he tried other drawers, and found only a residue of the wildly a.s.sorted civilian togs he wore when he stretched the chain of his ident.i.ty one link further, and played spy for the Dendarii. Plus some of his shabbier underwear. Was this some sort of practical joke? If so, he'd have the last laugh. Naked and irritated, he snapped open the locker where his s.p.a.ce armor dwelt. Empty. That was almost shocking. Somebody's taken it down to Engineering to re-calibrate it, or add tactics programs, or something. Somebody's taken it down to Engineering to re-calibrate it, or add tactics programs, or something. His batman should have returned it by now, though. What if he needed it in a hurry? His batman should have returned it by now, though. What if he needed it in a hurry?

Time. His people would be gathering. Quinn had once claimed he could carry on naked, and only make those around him feel overdressed. He was momentarily tempted to test her a.s.sertion, but overcame the mordant vision, and put the s.h.i.+rt and trousers and sandals he'd been wearing back on. He didn't need a uniform in order to dominate a briefing room, not any more.

On the way to the meeting, he pa.s.sed Sandy Hereld in the corridor, coming off duty, and gave her a friendly nod. She wheeled and walked backward in startlement. ”You're back, sir! That was quick.”

He would hardly describe his several-week journey to Imperial HQ on Barrayar as quick. She must mean the trip downside. ”It only took two hours.”

”What?” Her nose wrinkled. She was still walking backwards, reaching the end of the corridor.

He had a briefing room full of senior officers waiting. He waved and swung down a lift tube.

The briefing room was comfortingly familiar, right down to the array of faces around the darkly s.h.i.+ning table. Captain Auson of the Triumph. Triumph. Elena Bothari-Jesek, recently promoted captain of the Elena Bothari-Jesek, recently promoted captain of the Peregrine. Peregrine. Her husband Commodore Baz Jesek, Fleet engineer and in charge, in Miles's absence, of all the repair and refit activities of the Dendarii Fleet in Escobar orbit. The couple, Barrayarans themselves, were with Quinn among the handful of Dendarii apprised of Miles's double ident.i.ty. Captain Truzillo of the Her husband Commodore Baz Jesek, Fleet engineer and in charge, in Miles's absence, of all the repair and refit activities of the Dendarii Fleet in Escobar orbit. The couple, Barrayarans themselves, were with Quinn among the handful of Dendarii apprised of Miles's double ident.i.ty. Captain Truzillo of the Jayhawk Jayhawk, and a dozen more, all tested and true. His people.

Bel Thorne of the Ariel Ariel was late. That was unusual. One of Thorne's driving characteristics was an insatiable curiosity; a new mission briefing was like a Winterfair gift to the Betan hermaphrodite. Miles turned to Elena Bothari-Jesek, to make small talk while they waited. was late. That was unusual. One of Thorne's driving characteristics was an insatiable curiosity; a new mission briefing was like a Winterfair gift to the Betan hermaphrodite. Miles turned to Elena Bothari-Jesek, to make small talk while they waited.

”Did you get a chance to visit your mother, downside on Escobar?”

”Yes, thanks.” She smiled. ”It was . . . nice, to have a little time. We had a chance to talk about some things we'd never talked about the first time we met.”

It had been good for both of them, Miles judged. Some of the permanent strain seemed gone from Elena's dark eyes. Better and better, bit by bit. ”Good.”

He glanced up as the doors hissed open, but it was only Quinn, blowing in with the secured files in hand. She was back in full officer's undress kit, and looking very comfortable and efficient. She handed the files to Miles, and he loaded them into the comconsole, and waited another minute. Still no Bel Thorne.

Talk died away. His officers were giving him attentive, let's-get-on-with-it looks. He'd better not stand around much longer with his thumb in his ear. Before bringing the console display to life, he inquired, ”Is there some reason Captain Thorne is late?”

They looked at him, and then at each other. There can't be something wrong with Bel, it would have been reported to me first thing. There can't be something wrong with Bel, it would have been reported to me first thing. Still, a small leaden knot materialized in the pit of his stomach. ”Where is Bel Thorne?” Still, a small leaden knot materialized in the pit of his stomach. ”Where is Bel Thorne?”

By eye, they elected Elena Bothari-Jesek as spokesperson. That was an extremely bad sign. ”Miles,” she said hesitantly, ”was Bel supposed to be back before you?”

”Back? Where did Bel go?”

She was looking at him as though he'd lost his mind. ”Bel left with you, in the Ariel Ariel, three days ago.”

Quinn's head snapped up. ”That's impossible.”

”Three days ago, we were still en route to Escobar,” Miles stated. The leaden knot was trans.m.u.ting into neutron star matter. He was not dominating this room at all well. In fact, it seemed to be tilting.

”You took Green Squad with you. It was the new contract, Bel said,” Elena added.

”This is the new contract,” Miles tapped the comconsole. A hideous explanation was beginning to suggest itself to his mind, rising from the black hole in his stomach. The looks on the faces around the table were also beginning to divide into two uneven camps, appalled surmise from the minority who had been in on that mess on Earth two years ago-oh, they were right with him-total confusion from the majority, who had not been directly involved. . . . is the new contract,” Miles tapped the comconsole. A hideous explanation was beginning to suggest itself to his mind, rising from the black hole in his stomach. The looks on the faces around the table were also beginning to divide into two uneven camps, appalled surmise from the minority who had been in on that mess on Earth two years ago-oh, they were right with him-total confusion from the majority, who had not been directly involved. . . .

”Where did I say I was going?” Miles inquired. His tone was, he thought, gentle, but several people flinched.

”Jackson's Whole.” Elena looked him straight in the eye, with much the steady gaze of a zoologist about to dissect a specimen. A sudden lack of trust . . .

Jackson's Whole. That tears it. ”Bel Thorne? The ”Bel Thorne? The Ariel Ariel? Taura? With ten jumps ten jumps of Jackson's Whole?” Miles choked. ”Dear G.o.d.” of Jackson's Whole?” Miles choked. ”Dear G.o.d.”

”But if you're you,” said Truzillo, ”who was that three days ago?”

”If you're you,” said Elena darkly. The initiate crowd were all getting that same frowning look. you're you,” said Elena darkly. The initiate crowd were all getting that same frowning look.

”You see,” Miles explained in a hollow voice to the What-the-h.e.l.l-are-they-talking-about? What-the-h.e.l.l-are-they-talking-about? portion of the room, ”some people have an evil twin. I am not so lucky. What portion of the room, ”some people have an evil twin. I am not so lucky. What I I have is an have is an idiot idiot twin.” twin.”

”Your clone,” said Elena Bothari-Jesek.

”My brother,” he corrected automatically.

”Little Mark Pierre,” said Quinn. ”Oh . . . s.h.i.+t s.h.i.+t.”

CHAPTER THREE.

His stomach seemed to turn inside out, the cabin wavered, and shadow darkened his vision. The bizarre sensations of the wormhole jump were gone almost as soon as they began, but left an unpleasant somatic reverberation, as if he were a struck gong. He took a deep, calming breath. That had been the fourth jump of the voyage. Five jumps to go, on the tortuous zigzag through the wormhole nexus from Escobar to Jackson's Whole. The Ariel Ariel had been three days en route, almost halfway. had been three days en route, almost halfway.

He glanced around Naismith's cabin. He could not continue to hide out in here much longer, pretense of illness or Naismithian black mood or not. Thorne needed every bit of data he could supply to plan the Dendarii raid on the clone-creche. He had used his hibernation well, scanning the Ariel Ariel's mission logs back through time, all the way past his first encounter with the Dendarii two years ago. He now knew a great deal more about the mercenaries, and the thought of casual conversation with the Ariel Ariel's crew was far less terrifying.

Unfortunately there was very little in the mission log to help him reconstruct what his first meeting with Naismith on Earth had looked like from the Dendarii point of view. The log had concentrated on rehabilitation and refit reports, d.i.c.kerings with a.s.sorted s.h.i.+p's chandlers, and engineering briefings. He'd found exactly one order pertinent to his own adventures embedded in the data flow, advising all s.h.i.+p masters that Admiral Naismith's clone had been seen on Earth, warning that the clone might attempt to pa.s.s himself off as the Admiral, giving the (incorrect) information that the clone's legs would show up on a medical scan as normal bone and not plastic replacements, and ordering use of stunners-only in apprehending the imposter. No explanations, no later revisions or updates. All of Naismith/Vorkosigan's highest-level orders tended to be verbal and undoc.u.mented anyway, for security-from the Dendarii, not for them-a habit that had just served him well.

He leaned back in his station chair and glowered at the comconsole display. The Dendarii data named him Mark. That's another thing you don't get to choose, Mark. That's another thing you don't get to choose, Miles Naismith Vorkosigan had said. Miles Naismith Vorkosigan had said. Mark Pierre. You are Lord Mark Pierre Vorkosigan, in your own right, on Barrayar. Mark Pierre. You are Lord Mark Pierre Vorkosigan, in your own right, on Barrayar. But he was not on Barrayar, nor ever would be if he could help it. But he was not on Barrayar, nor ever would be if he could help it. You are not my brother, and the Butcher of Komarr was never a father to me, You are not my brother, and the Butcher of Komarr was never a father to me, his thought denied for the thousandth time to his absent progenitor. his thought denied for the thousandth time to his absent progenitor. My mother was a uterine replicator. My mother was a uterine replicator.

But the power of the suggestion had ridden him ever after, sapping his satisfaction with every pseudonym he'd ever tried, though he'd stared at lists of names till his eyes ached. Dramatic names, plain names, exotic, strange, common, silly . . . Jan Vandermark was the alias he'd used the longest, the closest sideways skittish approach to ident.i.ty.

Mark! Miles had shouted, being dragged away, for all he knew, to his own death. Miles had shouted, being dragged away, for all he knew, to his own death. Your name is Mark! Your name is Mark!

I am not Mark. I am NOT your d.a.m.ned brother, you maniac. The denial was hot and huge, but when its echoes died away, in the hollow chamber left inside his skull he seemed not to be anyone at all. The denial was hot and huge, but when its echoes died away, in the hollow chamber left inside his skull he seemed not to be anyone at all.

His head was aching, a grinding tightness that crawled up his spine through his shoulders and neck, and spread out under his scalp. He rubbed hard at his neck, but the tension just circulated around through his arms and back into his shoulders.

Not his brother. But to be strictly accurate, Naismith could not be blamed for forcing him to life in the same way as the other House Bharaputran clones' progenitors. Oh, they were genetically identical, yes. It was a matter of . . . intent, perhaps. And where the money came from.