Mirror Dance b-9

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  “Captain, standard procedure says that’s my job,” said the trooper Thorne had detailed to cover them, from his vantage behind a large concrete tree-tub.

  “Not this time,” said Thorne grimly. Not continuing the argument, dashed forward in a zigzag, then straight up the ramp, hurtling aside, plasma arc drawn. After a moment its voice came over the mm. “Now, Sumner.”

  Uninvited, he followed Trooper Sumner. The shuttle’s interior was pitch-dark. They all turned on their helmet lights, white fingers darting and touching. Nothing inside appeared disturbed, but the door to the pilot’s compartment was sealed.

  Silently, Thorne motioned the trooper to take up a firing stance opposite him, bracketing the door in the bulkhead between fuselage and flight-deck. He stood behind Thorne. Thorne punched another code into its arm control-pad. The door slid open with a tortured groan, then shuddered and jammed.

  A wave of heat boiled out like the breath of a blast furnace. A soft orange explosion followed, as enough oxygen rushed into the steering compartment to re-ignite any flammables that were left. The trooper fastened his emergency oxygen mask, grabbed a chemical fire-extinguisher from a clamp on the wall, and aimed it into the flight deck. After a moment they followed in his wake.

  Everything was slagged and burned. The controls were melted, communications equipment charred. The compartment stank, chokingly, of toxic oxidation products from all the synthetic materials. And one organic odor. Carbonized meat. What was left of the pilot—he turned his head, and swallowed. “Bharaputra doesn’t have—isn’t supposed to have heavy weapons on-site!”

  Thorne hissed, beyond swearing. It pointed. “They threw a couple of our own thermal mines in here, closed the door, and ran. Pilot had to have been stunned first. One smart goddamn Bharaputran son-of-a-bitch … didn’t have heavy weapons, so they just used ours. Drew off or ganged up on my guards, got in, and grounded us. Didn’t even stick around to ambush us … they can do that at their leisure, now. This beast won’t fly again.” Thorne’s face looked like a chiseled skull-mask in the white light from their helmets.

  Panic clogged his throat. “What do we do now, Bel?”

  “Fall back to the building. Set a perimeter. Use our hostages to negotiate some kind of surrender.”

  “No!”

  “You got a better idea— Miles?” Thorne’s teeth gritted. “I thought not.”

  The shocked trooper stared at Thorne. “Captain—” he glanced back and forth between them, “the Admiral will pull us through. We’ve been in tighter spots than this.”

  “Not this time.” Thorne straightened, voice drawn with agony. “My fault—take full responsibility… . That’s not the Admiral. That’s his clone-brother, Mark. He set us up, but I’ve known for days. Tumbled to him before we dropped, before we ever made Jacksonian locals pace. I thought I could bring this off, and not get caught.”

  “Eh?” The trooper’s brows wavered, disbelieving. A clone, going under anesthetic, might have that same stunned look on his face.

  “We can’t—we can’t betray those children back into Bharaputra’s hands,” Mark grated. Begged.

  Thorne dug its bare hand into the carbonized blob glued to what used to be the pilot’s station chair. “Who is betrayed?” It lifted its hand, rubbed a black crumbling smear across his face from cheek to chin. “Who is betrayed?” Thorne whispered. “Do you have. A better. Idea.”

  He was shaking, his mind a white-out blank. The hot carbon on his face felt like a scar.

  “Fall back to the building,” said Thorne. “On my command.”

  Chapter Six

  “No subordinates,” said Miles firmly. “I want to talk to the head an, once and done. And then get out of here.” “I’ll keep trying,” said Quinn. She turned back to her comconsole the Peregrine’s tac room, which was presently transmitting the face of a high-ranking Bharaputran security officer, and began the argument again.

  Miles sat back in his station chair, his boots flat to the deck, his hands held deliberately still along the control-studded armrests. Calm and control. That was the strategy. That was, at this point, the only strategy left to him. If only he’d been nine hours sooner … he’d methodically cursed every delay of the past five days, in four languages, till he’d run out of invective. They’d wasted fuel, profligately, pushing the Peregrine at max accelerations, and had nearly made up the Ariel’s lead. Nearly. The delays had given Mark just enough time to take a bad idea, and turn it into a disaster. But not Mark alone. Miles was no longer a proponent of the hero-theory of disaster. A mess this complete required the full cooperation of a cast of dozens. He very much wanted to talk privately with Bel Thorne, and very, very soon. He had not counted on Bel proving as much of a loose cannon as Mark himself.

  He glanced around the tac room, taking in the latest information from the vid displays. The Ariel was out of it, fled under fire to dock at Fell Station under Thorne’s second-in-command, Lieutenant Hart, ’hey were now blockaded by half a dozen Bharaputran security vessels, lurking outside Fell’s zone. Two more Bharaputran ships presently escorted the Peregrine in orbit. A token force, so far; the Peregrine outgunned them. That balance of power would shift when all their Bharaputran brethren arrived topside. Unless he could convince Baron Bharaputra it wasn’t necessary.

  He called up a view of the downside situation on his vid display, insofar as it was presently understood by the Peregrine’s battle computers. The exterior layout of the Bharaputran medical complex was plain even from orbit, but he lacked the details of the interiors he’d have liked if he were planning a clever attack. No clever attack. Negotiation, and bribery … he winced in anticipation of the upcoming costs. Bel Thorne, Mark, Green Squad, and fifty or so Bharaputran hostages were presently pinned down in a single building, separated from their damaged shuttle, and had been for the last eight hours. The shuttle pilot dead, three troopers injured. That would cost Bel its command, Miles swore to himself.

  It would be dawn down there soon. The Bharaputrans had evacuated all the civilians from the rest of the complex, thank God, but had also brought in heavy security forces and equipment. Only the threat of harm to their valuable clones held back an overwhelming Bharaputran onslaught. He would not be negotiating from a position of strength, alas. Cool.

  Quinn, without turning around, raised her hand and flashed him a high sign, Get ready. He glanced down, checking his own appearance. His officer’s undress grays were borrowed from the next smallest person aboard the Peregrine, a five-foot-tall female from Engineering, and fit him sloppily. He only had half his proper insignia. Aggressively messy was a possible command style, but he really needed more props to bring it off. Adrenalin and suppressed rage would have to power his appearance. If not for the biochip on his vagus nerve, his old ulcers would be perforating his stomach about now. He opened his comconsole to Quinn’s communications shunt, and waited.

  With a sparkle, the image of a frowning man appeared over the vid plate. His dark hair was drawn back in a tight knot held by a gold ring, emphasizing the strong bones of his face. He wore a bronze-brown silk tunic, and no other jewelry. Olive-brown skin; he looked a healthy forty or so. Appearances were deceiving. It took more than one lifetime to scheme and fight one’s way to the undisputed leadership of a Jacksonian House. Vasa Luigi, Baron Bharaputra, had been wearing the body of a clone for at least twenty years. He certainly took good care of it. The vulnerable period of another brain transplant would be doubly dangerous for a man whose power so many ruthless subordinates coveted. This man is not for playing games with, Miles decided.

  “Bharaputra here,” the man in brown stated, and waited. Indeed, the man and the House were one, for practical purposes.

  Naismith here,” said Miles. “Commanding, Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet.”

  “Apparently not completely,” said Vasa Luigi blandly.

  Miles peeled back his lips on set teeth, and managed not to flush. “Just so. You do understand, this raid was not authorized by me?”


  “I understand you claim so. Personally, I should not be so anxious announce my failure of control over my subordinates.”

  He’s baiting you. Cool. “We need to have our facts straight. I have not yet established if Captain Thorne was actually suborned, or merely taken in by my fellow-clone. In any case, it is your own product, for whatever sentimental reasons, who has returned to attempt to extract some personal revenge upon you. I’m just an innocent bystander, trying to straighten things out.”

  “You,” Baron Bharaputra blinked, like a lizard, “are a curiosity. We not manufacture you. Where did you come from?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It might.”

  “Then it is information for sale or trade, not for free.” That was old Jacksonian etiquette; the Baron nodded, unoffended. They were entering the realm of Deal, if not yet a deal between equals. Good.

  The Baron did not immediately pursue Miles’s family history, though. “So what is it you want from me, Admiral?”

  “I wish to help you. I can, if given a free hand, extract my people from that unfortunate dilemma downside with a minimum of further damage to Bharaputran persons or property. Quiet and clean. I would even consider paying reasonable costs of physical damages thus far incurred.”

  “I do not require your help, Admiral.”

  “You do if you wish to keep your costs down.”

  Vasa Luigi’s eyes narrowed, considering this. “Is that a threat?”

  Miles shrugged. “Quite the reverse. Both our costs can be very low—or both our costs can be very high. I would prefer low.”

  The Baron’s eyes flicked right, at some thing or person out of range he vid pick-up. “Excuse me a moment, Admiral.” His face was laced with a holding-pattern.

  Quinn drifted over. “Think we’ll be able to save any of those poor clones?”

  He ran his hands through his hair. “Hell, Elli, I’m still trying to Green Squad out! I doubt it.”

  “That’s a shame. We’ve come all this way.”

  “Look, I have crusades a lot closer to home than Jackson’s Whole, if you want ’em. A hell of a lot more than fifty kids are killed each year in the Barrayaran backcountry for suspected mutation, for starters. I can’t afford to get … quixotic like Mark. I don’t know where he picked up those ideas, it couldn’t have been from the Bharaputrans. Or the Komarrans.”

  Quinn’s brows rose; she opened her mouth, then shut it as if on some second thought, and smiled dryly. But then she said, “It’s Mark I was thinking about. You keep saying you want to get him to trust you.”

  “Make him a gift of the clones? I wish I could. Right after I finish strangling him with my bare hands, which will be right after I finish hanging Bel Thorne. Mark is Mark, he owes me nothing, but Bel should have known better.” His teeth clenched, aching. Her words shook him with galloping visions. Both ships, with every clone aboard, jumping triumphantly from Jacksonian local space … thumbing their noses at the bad Bharaputrans … Mark stammering gratitude, admiring … bring them all home to Mother … madness. Not possible. If he’d planned it all himself, from beginning to end, maybe. His plans certainly would not have included a midnight frontal assault with no back-up. The vid plate sparkled again, and he waved Quinn out of range. Vasa Luigi reappeared.

  “Admiral Naismith,” he nodded. “I have decided to allow you to order your mutinous crew to surrender to my security forces.”

  “I would not wish to put your security to any further trouble, Baron. They’ve been up all night, after all. Tired, and jumpy. I’ll collect all my people myself.”

  “That will not be possible. But I will guarantee their lives. The individual fines for their criminal acts will be determined later.”

  Ransoms. He swallowed rage. “This … is a possibility. But the fines must be determined in advance.”

  “You are hardly in a position to add conditions, Admiral.”

  “I only wish to avoid misunderstandings, Baron.”

  Vasa Luigi pursed his lips. “Very well. The troopers, ten thousand Betan dollars each. Officers, twenty-five thousand. Your hermaphrodite captain, fifty thousand, unless you wish us to dispose of it ourselves—no? I do not see that you have any use for your, ah, fellow clone, so we’ll retain custody of him. In return, I shall waive property damage charges.” The Baron nodded in satisfaction at his own generosity.

  Upwards of a quarter of a million. Miles cringed inwardly. Well, it could be done. “But I am not without interest in the clone. What … price do you put on his head?”

  “What possible interest?” Vasa Luigi inquired, surprised.

  Miles shrugged. “I’d think it was obvious. My profession is full of hazards. I am the only survivor of my clone-clutch. The one I call Mark was as much a surprise to me as I was to him, I think; neither of us knew there was a second cloning project. Where else would I find such a perfect, ah, organ-donor, and on such short notice?”

  Vasa Luigi opened his hands. “We might arrange to keep him safe )r you.”

  “If I needed him at all, I’d need him urgently. In the circumstances, I’d fear a sudden rise in the market price. Besides, accidents happen. Look at the accident that happened to poor Baron Fell’s clone, in your keeping.”

  The temperature seemed to drop twenty degrees, and Miles cursed is tongue. That episode was apparently still classified information in these parts, or at least some kind of hot button. The Baron studied him, if not with more respect, then with increased suspicion. “If you wish another clone made for transplant purposes, Admiral, you’ve come to the right place. But this clone is not for sale.”

  “This clone does not belong to you,” Miles snapped out, too quickly. No—steady on. Keep it cool, keep his real thoughts buried deep, maintain that smarmy surface persona that could actually cut a deal with Baron Bharaputra without vomiting. Cool. “Besides, there’s that ten-year lead time. It’s not some long-anticipated death from old age that concerns me. It’s the abrupt surprise sort.” After a pause, and with a heroic effort, he choked out, “You need not waive the property damage charges, of course.”

  “I need not do anything at all, Admiral,” the Baron pointed out. Coolly.

  Don’t bet on it, you Jacksonian bastard. “Why do you want this particular clone, Baron? Considering how readily you could make yourself another.”

  “Not that readily. His medical records reveal he was quite a challenge.” Vasa Luigi tapped the side of his aquiline nose with one forefinger, and smiled without much humor.

  “Do you plan punishment? A warning to other malefactors?”

  “He will doubtless regard it so.”

  So, there was a plan for Mark, or at least an idea that smelled of some profit. “Nothing in the direction of our Barrayaran progenitor, I trust. That plot is long dead. They know about us both.”

  “I admit, his Barrayaran connections interest me. Your Barrayaran connections interest me too. It is obvious from the name that you took for yourself that you’ve long known where you came from. Just what is your relationship with Barrayar, Admiral?”

  “Queasy,” he admitted. “They tolerate me, I do them a favor now and then. For a price. Beyond that, mutual avoidance. Barrayaran Imperial Security has a longer arm even than House Bharaputra. You don’t want to attract their negative attention, I assure you.”

  Vasa Luigi’s brows rose, politely skeptical. “A progenitor and two clones … three identical brothers. And all so short. Among you, I suppose you make a whole man.”

  Not to the point; the Baron was casting for something, information, presumably. “Three, but hardly identical,” said Miles. “The original Lord Vorkosigan is a dull stick, I am assured. The limitations of Mark’s capacities, he has just demonstrated, I fear. I was the improved model. My creators planned higher things for me, but they did their job too well, and I began planning for myself. A trick neither of my poor siblings seems to have mastered.”

  “I wish I could talk with your creators.”

 
“I wish you could too. They are deceased.”

  The Baron favored him with a chill smile. “You’re a cocky little fellow, aren’t you?”

  Miles stretched his lips in return, and said nothing.

  The Baron sat back, tenting his fingers. “My offer stands. The clone is not for sale. But every thirty minutes, the fines will double. I advise you to close your deal quickly, Admiral. You will not get a better.”

  “I must have a brief consultation with my Fleet accountant,” Miles temporized. “I will return your call shortly.”

  “How else?” Vasa Luigi murmured, with a small smile at his own wit.

  Miles cut the comm abruptly, and sat. His stomach was shaking, hot red waves of shame and anger radiating outward through his whole body from the pit of his belly.

  “But the Fleet accountant isn’t here,” Quinn pointed out, sounding slightly confused. Lieutenant Bone had indeed departed with Baz and the rest of the Dendarii from Escobar.

  “I … don’t like Baron Bharaputra’s deal.”

  “Can’t ImpSec rescue Mark later?”

  “I am ImpSec.”

  Quinn could hardly disagree; she fell silent.

  “I want my space armor,” he growled petulantly, hunching in his station chair.

  “Mark has it,” said Quinn.

  “I know. My half-armor. My command headset.”

  “Mark has those too.”

  “I know.” His hand slapped down hard on the arm of the chair, the harsh crack in the quiet chamber making Quinn flinch. “A squad leader’s helmet, then!”

  “What for?” said Quinn in a flat, unencouraging tone. “No crusades here, you said.”

  “I’m cutting myself a better deal.” He swung to his feet. His blood beat in his ears, hotter and hotter. “Come on.”

  The seat straps bit into his body as the drop shuttle blew its clamps and accelerated away from the side of the Peregrine. Miles glanced up over the pilot’s shoulder for a quick check of the planet’s curvature sliding across the window, and a glimpse of his two fighter-shuttles falling away from the mothership to cover them. They were followed the Peregrine’s second combat drop shuttle, the other half of his two-pronged attack. His faint feint. Would the Bharaputrans take it seriously? You hope. He turned his attention back to the glittering digital data-world supplied by his command headset, glad he was not stuck with a squad leader’s helmet after all. He’d commandeered Elena Bothari-Jesek’s downside-team captain’s gear, while she rode the tactics room back aboard the Peregrine. Bring it back without any unsightly holes through it, damn you, she’d told him, her face pale with unexpressed anxiety. Practically everything he wore was liberated. An oversized nerve-disruptor shield-net suit had its cuffs turned up and held with elastic bands at wrists and ankles. Quinn had insisted on it, and as nerve-disruptor damage was his particular nightmare, he hadn’t argued. Sloppy fatigues, held ditto. The plasma-mirror field pack straps cinched the extra fabric around his body reasonably well. Two pairs of thick socks kept his borrowed boots from sliding around. It was all very annoying, but hardly his greatest concern while trying to pull together a downside raid on thirty minutes’ notice.