Mirror Dance b-9

by Lois McMaster Bujold

“Yeah,” the medic decided. His jaw tightened, behind his visor. “If you hurry, you might even get there ahead of Captain Quinn,” said Mark. He still held the medic’s helmet. There were no more sounds from overhead. Should he run after Quinn’s moving fire-fight, stay and try to help guide and guard the float-pallet? He was not sure if he was more afraid of Quinn, or of the Bharaputran fire her party drew. Either way he’d probably be safer with the cryo-chamber. He took a deep breath. “You … keep my helmet. I’ll take yours.” Th medic and the trooper were both glowering at him with disfavor, tellingly. “I’ll go after Quinn and the clones.” His clones. Would Quinn have any regard at all for their lives?

  “Go, then,” said the medic. He and the trooper aimed the float-pallet out the doors, and didn’t look back. They obviously had him judged as more of a liability than an asset, and felt well-rid of him. Grimly, he climbed the ladder back up the lift tube. He peeked cautiously across the foyer floor, as it came to his eye level. A lot of property damage. A sprinkler system had added steam to the choking smoke. One brown-clad body lay prone, unmoving. The floor was wet and slippery. He swung out of the tube and darted skittishly out the corridor the Dendarii company must have taken, if they were sticking heir planned route. More plasma arc damage assured him he was the right track.

  He rounded a corner, skidded to a halt, and flung himself backward, out of sight. The Bharaputrans hadn’t seen him; they’d been facing the other way. He retreated back down the corridor while awkwardly keying through the channels of the unfamiliar helmet till he made contact with Quinn.

  “Captain Quinn? Uh, Mark here.”

  “Where the hell are you, where’s Norwood?”

  “He’s got my helmet. He’s taking the cryo-chamber through by another route. I’m behind you, but I can’t close up. There are at least four Bharaputrans in full space armor between us, coming up on your rear. Watch out.”

  “Hell, now we’re outgunned. That tears it.” Quinn paused. “No. I can take care of them. Mark, get the hell away, follow Norwood. Run!”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Drop the roof on those bastards. Lotta good space armor’ll do ’em then. Run!”

  He ran, realizing what she was planning. At the first lift tube he came to, he took to the ladder, climbing wildly, regardless of where it led. He didn’t want to be any further underground than he had to when—

  It was like an earthquake. He clung as the tube cracked and buckled, and the felt sound beat through his body. It was over in a moment, but for an echoing rumble, and he resumed his climb. Daylight ahead, reflecting silver down a tube entrance.

  He came out on the ground floor of a building furnished like a fancy office. Its windows were cracked and starred. He knocked a hole in one and climbed through, and flipped up his infra-red visor. To his right, half of another building had fallen away into an enormous crater. Dust still rose in choking clouds. The Bharaputrans in their sturdy, deadly space armor were possibly still alive, under all that, but it would take an excavation crew hours to dig them out. He grinned despite his terror, panting in the daylight.

  The medic’s helmet did not have nearly the eavesdropping capacity of the command headset, but he found Quinn again. “All right, Norwood, keep on going,” she was saying. “Go like hell! Framingham! Got that? Lock on Norwood. Start pulling in your perimeter people. Lift as soon as Norwood and Tonkin are aboard. Kimura! You in the air?” A pause; Mark could not get Kimura’s reply, whoever and wherever he was. But he could fill in the sense of it from Quinn’s continuation. “Well, we’ve just made you a new drop zone. It’s a bit lumpy, but it’ll do. Follow my signal, come straight down into the crater. You’ll just fit. Yes, you will too, I’ve laser-’scoped it, you do too have clearance. You can risk the shuttle now, Kimura. Come on!”

  He made for the crater too, scuttling along close to the side of the building, taking advantage of overhangs till the patter of falling concrete chips made him realize that the blast-damaged balcony above his head was losing its structural integrity. Stay under and get mashed, or step out in the open and get shot? Whichever he did would prove the wrong choice, he was certain. What was that line Vorkosigan’s military textbooks were so fond of quoting? No battle in survives first contact with the enemy. Quinn’s tactics and dispositions shifted with bewildering speed. She was exploiting a quite literal new opening—the roar of a drop shuttle grew in his ears, and he sprinted out from under the balcony as the vibrations weakened it. The end gave way and fell with a crash. He kept on sprinting. Let the Bharaputran snipers try to hit a moving target… . Quinn and her group ventured into the open just as the drop shuttle, feet extended like an enormous insect, felt its way carefully into the crater. A few last Bharaputrans were in position on a roof opposite to offer harrying fire. But they had only plasma arcs, and were still being careful of the clones, though one pink-clad girl screamed, caught in the backwash of a Dendarii plasma mirror field. Light burns, painful but not fatal. She was crying and panicked, but a Dendarii trooper nevertheless caught her and aimed her at the shuttle hatch, now opening and extruding a ramp.

  The few Bharaputrans, hopeless of bringing the shuttle down with there sniper’s weapons, changed their tactics. They began concentrating their fire on Quinn, shot after shot pumping into her overloading mirror field. She shimmered in a haze of blue fire, staggering under the impact. Clones and Dendarii pelted up the ramp. Command helmets draw fire. He could see no other way but to run in front of her. The air around him lit as his mirror field spilled energy, but in the brief respite Quinn regained her balance. She grabbed him by the hand and together they sprinted up the ramp, the last to board. The shuttle was lurching back into the air and the ramp withdrawing even as they fell through the hatch. The hatch sealed behind them. The silence felt like a song. Mark rolled over on his back and lay gasping for air, lungs on fire, Quinn sat up, her face red in its circle of gray. Just a sunburn. She cried hysterically for three breaths, then clamped her mouth shut. Tearfully, her fingers touched her hot cheeks, and Mark remembered at this was the woman who had had her face burned entirely away by plasma fire, once. But not twice. Not twice.

  She scrambled to her knees, and began keying through command channels on her almost-fatal headset again. She then yanked herself to her feet and ricocheted forward in the jinking accelerations of the shuttle. Mark sat up and stared around, disoriented. Sergeant Taura, Thorne, the clones, he recognized. The rest were strange Dendarii, Lieutenant Kimura’s Yellow Squad presumably, some in the usual gray fatigues, some in full space armor. They looked rather the worse for wear. All four bunks for wounded in the hack were folded down and filled, and a fifth man was laid out on the floor. But the attending medic moved smoothly, not frantically. Her patients were clearly stabilized, able to wait for further treatment under more favorable conditions. Yellow Squad’s cryo-chamber was recently occupied, though. The prognosis was now so bad for the foil-wrapped Phillipi, Mark wondered if they would even attempt to continue freezing her, once they were back aboard the Peregrine. But except for the bike-trooper and the cryo-chamber, there were no more covered forms, no body bags—Kimura’s squad seemed to have made it through their mission, whatever it had been, fairly lightly.

  The shuttle banked; they were circling, not boosting to orbit yet. Mark moaned under his breath, and rose to follow Quinn and find out what was going on.

  When he came in sight of the prisoner he stopped short. The man sat with his hands bound behind him, securely strapped into a seat and guarded by two Yellow Squad troopers, a big fellow and a thin woman who made Mark think of a snake, all sinuous muscle and unblinking beady eyes. The prisoner looked a striking forty or so years of age, and wore a torn brown silk tunic and trousers. Loose strands of dark hair escaped from a gold ring on the back of his head and fell about his face. He did not struggle, but sat calmly, waiting, with a cold patience that quite matched the snake-woman’s.

  Bharaputra. The Bharaputra, Baron Bharaputra, Vasa Luigi himself.
The man hadn’t changed a hair in the eight years since Mark had last glimpsed him.

  Vasa Luigi’s face rose, and his eyes widened slightly, seeing Mark. “So, Admiral,” he murmured.

  “Just so,” Mark responded automatically with a Naismith-phrase. He swayed as the shuttle banked more sharply, concealing weak-kneed terror, concealing exhaustion. He hadn’t slept the night before this mission, either. Bharaputra, here?

  The Baron cocked an eyebrow. “Who is that on your shirt?”

  Mark glanced down at himself. The bandolier of blood had not yet turned brown, and was still damp, sticky and cold. He found himself actually wanting to answer, My brother, for the shock value. But he wasn’t sure the Baron was shockable. He fled forward, avoiding more intimate conversation. Baron Bharaputra. Did Quinn and company plan to ride this tiger, and how? But at least he now understood why the shuttle could circle the combat zone without apparent fear of enemy fire.

  He found Quinn and Thorne both in the pilot’s compartment, along with Kimura the Yellow Squad commander. Quinn had taken over the shuttle’s communication station, her gray hood pushed back, sweat-soaked dark curls in disarray.

  “Framingham! Report!” she was crying into the comm. “You’ve got to get into the air. Bharaputran airborne reinforcements are almost on top of you.”

  Across the flight deck at the station opposite Quinn’s, Thorne monitored a tactical holovid. Two Dendarii colored dots, fighter shuttles, set upon but failed to break up an array of enemy shuttles passing a ghost city, astral projection of the live city turning below them. Mark glanced out the window past the pilots’ shoulders, but could not spot the originals in the sunlit morning smog. We have a downed-man recovery in progress, ma’am,” Framing-s voice returned. “One minute, till the squad gets back.”

  “Do you have everyone else? Do you have Norwood? I can’t raise his helmet!”

  There was a short delay. Quinn’s fists clenched, opened. Her finger-were bitten to red stumps.

  Framingham’s voice at last. “We’ve got him now, ma’am. Got everyone–the quick and the dead alike, except for Phillipi. I don’t want to leave anyone for those bloody bastards if I can help it—” We have Phillipi.”

  “Thank God! Then everyone’s accounted for. We have lift-off now, Captain Quinn.”

  “That’s precious cargo, Framingham,” said Quinn. “We rendezvous in the Perigrine’s umbrella of fire. The fighter shuttles will guard your ass.” In the tac display, the Dendarii dots peeled away from the faltering enemy and left them behind. “What about your wings?”

  “We’ll be right behind you. Yellow Squad bought us a first-class ticket home free. Home free is Fell Station.”

  “And then we head out?”

  “No. The Ariel took some damage, earlier. We’re docking.”

  “Understood. See you there.”

  The Dendarii formation came together at last, and began to boost hard. Mark fell into a station chair, and hung on. The fighter shuttles were more at risk from enemy fire than the drop shuttles, he feared, watching the tac display. One fighter shuttle was distinctly lagging. It clung close to the Yellow Squad’s craft. The formation slowed itself to its wounded member. But for once, things ran to plan. Bharaputran harriers dropped reluctantly behind as they broke ’f the atmosphere and into orbit.

  Quinn rested her elbows for a weary moment on her console, and hid her red-and-white face in her hands, rubbing tender eyelids. Thorne sat silent. Quinn, Thorne, himself, all bore broken segments of that ribbon of blood. Like a red ribbon, binding them one to another.

  Fell Station was coming up at last. It was a huge structure, the largest of the orbital transfer stations circling Jackson’s Whole, and House Fell’s headquarters and homei city. Baron Fell liked holding the high ground. In the delicate interlocking network of the Great Houses, House Fell probably held the most raw power, in terms of capacity for destruction. But raw destruction was seldom profitable, and coup was counted in coins, here. What coin were the Dendarii using to buy Fell Station’s help, or at least neutrality? The person of Baron Bharaputra, now secured in the cargo bay? What kind of bargaining chips were the clones, then, small change? And to think he’d despised the Jacksonians for being dealers in flesh.

  Fell Station was just now passing out of the planet’s eclipse, the advancing line of sunlight dramatically unveiling its vast extent. They decelerated toward one arm, giving up direction to Fell’s traffic controllers and some heavily armed tugs which appeared out of nowhere to escort them. And there was the Peregrine, coasting in. The drop shuttles and the fighter shuttles all gavotted around their mother ship, coming meekly to their docking clamps. The Peregrine itself eased delicately toward its assigned mooring.

  With a clank of the portside clamps and the hiss of flex-tube seals, they were home. In the cargo bay, the Dendarii expedited removal of the wounded to the Peregrine’s infirmary, then turned much more slowly and wearily to tie-down and clean-up chores. Quinn shot past them, Thorne close on her heels. As if pulled by that mortal red ribbon, Mark followed.

  The goal of Quinn’s mad dash was the starboard side shuttle hatch, where Framingham’s shuttle was coming to dock. They arrived there just as the flex-tube seals were secured, then had to stand out of the way as the wounded were rushed out first. Mark was disturbed to recognize Trooper Tonkin, who had accompanied Norwood the medic, among them. Tonkin had reversed roles, from guard to patient. His face was dark and still, unconscious, as eager hands hustled him past and shifted him onto a float pallet. Something’s very wrong, here.

  Quinn shifted impatiently from foot to foot. Other Dendarii troopers started to exit, herding clones. Quinn frowned, and shouldered upstream past them through the flex tube and into the shuttle.

  Thorne and Mark went after her into free fall chaos. There were clone-youths everywhere, some crying, some violently sick—Dendarii were attempting to catch them, and get them towed to the exit. One harried trooper with a hand-vac was chasing floating globs of some child’s last meal before everyone had to breathe it. The shouts and screams and babble were like a blow to the mind. Framingham’s bellows were failing to speed a return to military order any faster than the terrorized clones could be removed from the cargo bay.

  “Framingham!” Quinn floated over and grabbed him by the ankle. “Framingham! Where the hell’s the cryo-chamber Norwood was escorting?”

  He glanced down, frowning. “But you said you had it, Captain.” What?”

  “You said you had Phillipi.” His lips stretched in a fierce grimace, “Goddammit, if we’ve left her behind I’ll—”

  We have Phillipi, yes, but she’s—she was no longer in the cryo-chamber. Norwood was supposed to be getting it to you, Norwood and Tonkin.”

  “They didn’t have it when my rescue patrol pulled them out. We them both, what was left of ’em. Norwood was killed. Hit through eye with one of those frigging projectile spine-grenades. Blew his head apart. But I didn’t leave his body, it’s in the bag over there.” Command helmets draw fire, oh yes, I knew that… . No wonder Quinn hadn’t been able to raise Norwood’s comm channels.

  “The cryo-chamber, Framingham!” Quinn’s voice held a high pitch anguish Mark had never heard before.

  “We didn’t see any goddamn cryo-chamber, Quinn! Norwood and Tonkin didn’t have it when we got to them! What’s so frigging important about the cryo-chamber if Phillipi wasn’t even in it?” Quinn released his ankle, and floated in a tightening ball, arms and legs drawing in. Her eyes were dark and huge. She bit off a string of inadequate foul words, grinding her teeth so hard her gums went white. Thorne looked like a chalk doll.

  “Thorne,” Quinn said, when she could speak again. “Get on the comm to Elena. I want both ships on a total security blackout, as of now. No leaves, no passes, no communications with Fell Station or anybody else that isn’t cleared by me. Tell her to get Lieutenant Hart over here from the Ariel. I want to meet with them both at once, do not over comm channels. Go.”


  Thorne nodded, rotated in air, and launched itself forward toward the flight deck.

  “What is this?” demanded Sergeant Framingham. Quinn took a deep, slow breath. “Framingham, we left the Admiral downside.”

  “Have you lost your mind, he’s right there—” Framingham’s finger sagged in mid-point at Mark. His hand closed into a fist. “Oh.” He realized. “That’s the clone.”

  Quinn’s eyes burned; Mark could feel them boring through to the back of his skull like laser-drills. “Maybe not,” Quinn said heavily. “Not as far as House Bharaputra needs to know.”

  “Ah?” Framingham’s eyes narrowed in speculation. No! Mark screamed inside. Silently. Very silently.

  Chapter Eight

  It was like being trapped in a locked room with half a dozen serial killers with hangovers. Mark could hear each one’s breathing from where they sat in a ring around the officer’s conference table. They were in the briefing chamber off the Peregrine’s main tactics room. Quinn’s breath was the lightest and fastest, Sergeant Taura’s was the deepest and most ominous. Only Elena Bothari-Jesek at her captain’s place at the head of the table, and Lieutenant Hart on her right, were shipboard-clean and natty. The rest had come as they were from the drop mission, battered and stinking: Taura, Sergeant Framingham, Lieutenant Kimura, Quinn on Bothari-Jesek’s left. And himself, of course, lonely at the far end of the oblong table.

  Captain Bothari-Jesek frowned, and wordlessly handed around a bottle of painkiller tablets. Sergeant Taura took six. Only Lieutenant Kimura passed. Taura handed them across to Framingham without offering any to Mark. He longed for the tablets as a thirsty man might yearn after a glass of water, poured out and sinking into desert sand. The bottle went back up the table and disappeared into the captain’s pocket. Mark’s eyes throbbed in time to his sinuses, and the back of his head felt tight as drying rawhide.

  Bothari-Jesek spoke. “This emergency debriefing is called to deal with just two questions, and as quickly as possible. What the hell happened, and what are we going to do next? Are those helmet recorders on their way?”