Part 11 (1/2)

”All I can say,” said Quinn, ”is that he's a d.a.m.n poor imitation of the real Miles Vorkosigan.”

Yes, that's what I've been trying to tell you.

Bothari-Jesek shook her head in, presumably, exasperated agreement. ”Come on,” she said to him.

She escorted him to an officer's cabin, small but thank-G.o.d private. It was disused, blank and clean, military-austere, the air a little stale. He supposed Thorne must now be similarly housed nearby.

”I'll get some clean clothes sent over for you from the Ariel Ariel. And send some food.”

”Food first-please?”

”Sure.”

”Why are you being nice to me?” His voice came out plaintive and suspicious, making him sound weak and paranoid, he feared.

Her aquiline face went introspective. ”I want to know . . . who you are. What you are.”

”You know. I'm a manufactured clone. Manufactured right here on Jackson's Whole.”

”I don't mean your body.”

He hunched in an automatic defensive posture, though he knew it emphasized his deformities.

”You are very closed,” she observed. ”Very alone. That's not at all like Miles. Usually.”

”He's not a man, he's a mob. He's got a whole d.a.m.ned army trailing around after him.” Not to mention the harrowing harem. Not to mention the harrowing harem. ”I suppose he likes it like that.” ”I suppose he likes it like that.”

Her lips curved in an unexpected smile. It was the first time he'd seen her smile. It changed her face. ”He does, I think.” Her smile faded. ”Did.”

”You're doing this for him, aren't you. Treating me like this because you think he'd want it.” Not in his own right, no, never, but all for Miles and his d.a.m.ned brother-obsession.

”Partly.”

Right.

”But mostly,” she said, ”because someday Countess Vorkosigan will ask me what I did for her son.”

”You're planning to trade Baron Bharaputra for him, aren't you?”

”Mark . . .” her eyes were dark with a strange . . . pity? irony? He could not read her eyes. ”She'll mean you.”

She turned on her heel and left him by himself, sealed in the cabin.

He showered in the hottest water the tiny unit would yield, and stood for long minutes in the heat of the dryer-blast, till his skin flushed red, before he stopped s.h.i.+vering. He was dizzy with exhaustion. When he finally emerged, he found someone had been and gone and left clothes and food. He hastily pulled on underwear, a black Dendarii T-s.h.i.+rt, and a pair of his progenitor's s.h.i.+p-knit grey trousers, and fell upon the dinner. It wasn't a dainty Naismith-special-diet this time, but rather a tray of standard ready-to-eat rations designed to keep a large and physically active trooper going strong. It was far from gourmet fare, but it was the first time he'd had enough food on his plate for weeks. He devoured it all, as if whatever fairy had delivered it might reappear and s.n.a.t.c.h it away again. Stomach aching, he rolled into bed and lay on his side. He no longer s.h.i.+vered as if from cold, nor felt drained and sweating and shaky from low blood sugar. Yet a kind of psychic reverberation still rolled like a black tide through his body.

At least you got the clones out.

No. Miles Miles got the clones out. got the clones out.

Dammit, dammit, dammit . . .

This half-baked disaster was not the glorious redemption of which he'd dreamed. Yet what had he expected the aftermath to be? In all his desperate plotting, he'd planned almost nothing past his projected return to Escobar with the Ariel Ariel. To Escobar, grinning, with the clones under his wing. He'd imagined himself dealing with an enraged Miles then, but then it would have been too late for Miles to stop him, too late to take his victory from him. He'd half-expected to be arrested, but to go willingly, whistling. What had had he wanted? he wanted?

To be free of survivor guilt? To break that old curse? n.o.body you knew back then is still alive. . . . n.o.body you knew back then is still alive. . . . That was the motive he'd thought was driving him, when he thought at all. Maybe it wasn't so simple. He'd wanted to free himself from something. . . . In the last two years, freed of Ser Galen and the Komarrans by the actions of Miles Vorkosigan, freed again altogether by Miles on a London street at dawn, he had not found the happiness he'd dreamed of during his slavery to the terrorists. Miles had broken only the physical chains that bound him; others, invisible, had cut so deep that flesh had grown around them. That was the motive he'd thought was driving him, when he thought at all. Maybe it wasn't so simple. He'd wanted to free himself from something. . . . In the last two years, freed of Ser Galen and the Komarrans by the actions of Miles Vorkosigan, freed again altogether by Miles on a London street at dawn, he had not found the happiness he'd dreamed of during his slavery to the terrorists. Miles had broken only the physical chains that bound him; others, invisible, had cut so deep that flesh had grown around them.

What did you think? That if you were as heroic as Miles, they'd have to treat you like Miles? That they would have to love you?

And who were they they? The Dendarii? Miles himself? Or behind Miles, those sinister, fascinating shadows, Count and Countess Vorkosigan?

His image of Miles's parents was blurred, uncertain. The unbalanced Galen had presented them, his hated enemies, as black villains, the Butcher of Komarr and his virago wife. Yet with his other hand he'd required Mark to study them, using unedited source materials, their writings, their public speeches, private vids. Miles's parents were clearly complex people, hardly saints, but just as clearly not the foaming s.a.d.i.s.tic sodomite and murderous b.i.t.c.h of Galen's raving paranoias. In the vids Count Aral Vorkosigan appeared merely a grey-haired, thick-set man with oddly intent eyes in his rather heavy face, with a rich, raspy, level voice. Countess Cordelia Vorkosigan spoke less often, a tall woman with red-roan hair and notable grey eyes, too powerful to be called pretty, yet so centered and balanced as to seem beautiful even though, strictly speaking, she was not.

And now Bothari-Jesek threatened to deliver him to them. . . .

He sat up, and turned on the light. A quick tour of the cabin revealed nothing to commit suicide with. No weapons or blades-the Dendarii had disarmed him when he'd come aboard. Nothing to hang a belt or rope from. Boiling himself to death in the shower was not an option, a sealed fail-safe sensor turned it off automatically when it exceeded physiological tolerances. He went back to bed.

The image of a little, urgent, shouting man with his chest exploding outward in a carmine spray replayed in slow motion in his head. He was surprised when he began to cry. Shock, it had to be the shock that Bothari-Jesek had diagnosed. I hated the little b.u.g.g.e.r when he was alive, why am I crying? I hated the little b.u.g.g.e.r when he was alive, why am I crying? It was absurd. Maybe he was going insane. It was absurd. Maybe he was going insane.

Two nights without sleep had left him ringingly numb, yet he could not sleep now. He only dozed, drifting in and out of near-dreams and recent, searing memories. He half-hallucinated about being in a rubber raft on a river of blood, bailing frantically in the red torrent, so that when Quinn came to get him after only an hour's rest, it was actually a relief.

CHAPTER NINE.

”Whatever you do,” said Captain Thorne, ”don't mention the Betan rejuvenation treatment.

Mark frowned. ”What Betan rejuvenation treatment? Is there one?”

”No.”

”Then why the h.e.l.l would I mention it?”

”Never mind, just don't.”

Mark gritted his teeth, swung around in his station chair square to the vid plate, and pressed the keypad to lower his seat till his booted feet were flat to the floor. He was fully kitted in Naismith's officer's greys. Quinn had dressed him as though he were a doll, or an idiot child. Quinn, Bothari-Jesek, and Thorne had then proceded to fill his head with a ma.s.s of sometimes-conflicting instructions on how to play Miles in the upcoming interview. As if I didn't know. As if I didn't know. The three captains now each sat in station chairs out of range of the vid pick-up in the The three captains now each sat in station chairs out of range of the vid pick-up in the Peregrine Peregrine's tac room, ready to prompt him through an ear-bug. And he'd thought Galen Galen was a puppet master. His ear itched, and he wriggled the bug in irritation, earning a frown from Bothari-Jesek. Quinn had never stopped scowling. was a puppet master. His ear itched, and he wriggled the bug in irritation, earning a frown from Bothari-Jesek. Quinn had never stopped scowling.

Quinn had never stopped. She still wore her blood-soaked fatigues. Her sudden inheritance of command of this debacle had allowed her no rest. Thorne had cleaned up and changed to s.h.i.+p greys, but obviously had not slept yet. Both their faces stood out pale in the shadows, too sharply lined. Quinn had made Mark take a stimulant when, getting him dressed, she'd found him too muzzy-mouthed for her taste, and he did not quite like its effects. His head and eyes were almost too clear, but his body felt beaten. All the edges and surfaces of the tac room seemed to stand out with unnatural clarity. Sounds and voices in his ears seemed to have a painful serrated quality, sharp and blurred at once. Quinn was on the stuff too, he realized, watching her wince at a high electronic squeal from the comm equipment.

(”All right, you're on,”) said Quinn through the ear-bug as the vid plate in front of him began to sparkle. They all shut up at last.

The image of Baron Fell materialized, and frowned at him too. Georish Stauber, Baron Fell of House Fell, was unusual for the leader of a Jacksonian Great House in that he still wore his original body. An old man's body. The Baron was stout, pink of face, with a s.h.i.+ny liver-spotted scalp fringed by white hair trimmed short. The silk tunic he wore in his House's particular shade of green made him look like a hypothyroid elf. But there was nothing elfin about his cold and penetrating eyes. Miles was not intimidated by a Jacksonian Baron's power, Mark reminded himself. Miles was not intimidated by any power backed by less than three entire planets. His father the Butcher of Komarr could eat Jacksonian Great Houses for breakfast.

He, of course, was not Miles.

Screw that. I'm Miles for the next fifteen minutes, anyway.

”So, Admiral,” rumbled the Baron. ”We meet again after all.”

”Quite.” Mark managed not to let his voice crack.