Mirror Dance b-9

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  “I don’t know!” said Quinn sharply. She gulped back control of her voice. “A day, a week, two weeks—at least till we can deliver you and the cryo-chamber to ImpSec’s galactic affairs HQ on Komarr. Then it will be out of my hands.”

  “How the hell do you think you’re going to keep all this under wraps?” Mark asked scornfully. “Dozens of people know what really happened.”

  “ ’Two can keep a secret, if one of them is dead’?” Quinn grimaced. “I don’t know. The troops will be all right, they have the discipline. The clones I can keep incommunicado. Anyway, we’re all going to be bottled up on this ship till we reach Komarr. Later … I’ll deal with later.”

  “I want to see my … the … my clones. What you’ve done with them,” Mark demanded suddenly.

  Quinn looked like she was about to explode, but Bothari-Jesek cut in, “I’ll take him down, Quinnie. I want to check on my passengers too.”

  “Well … as long as you escort him back to his cabin when you’re done. And put a guard on his door. We can’t have him wandering around the ship.”

  “Will do.” Bothari-Jesek chivvied him out quickly, before Quinn decided to have him bound and gagged as well.

  The clones had been housed in three hastily-cleared freight storage chambers aboard the Peregrine, two assigned to the boys and one to the girls. Mark ducked through a door behind Bothari-Jesek into one of the boys’ chambers, and looked around. Three rows of bedrolls, which must have been podded over from the Ariel, filled the floor space. A self-contained field latrine was strapped into one corner, and a field shower hastily connected in the other, to keep any need for the clones to move about the ship to a minimum. Half jail, half refugee camp, crowded—as he walked down a row between bedrolls the boys glowered up at him with the hollow faces of prisoners.

  I freed you all, dammit. Don’t you know I freed you?

  It had been a rough rescue, true. During that hideous night of siege the Dendarii had been liberal with the most dire threats, to keep their charges under control. Some clones now slept, exhausted. The stunned ones were waking up sick and disoriented; a female Dendarii medic moved among them administering synergine and soothing words. Things were … under control. Suppressed. Silent. Not jubilant; not grateful. If they believed our threats, why don’t they believe our promises? Even the active boys who had cooperated enthusiastically in the excitement of siege and firefight now stared at him with renewed doubt.

  The blond boy was one of them. Mark stopped by his bedroll, and hunkered down. Bothari-Jesek waited, watching them. “All this,” Mark waved vaguely at the chamber, “is temporary, you know. It’s going to get better later. We’re going to get you out of here.”

  The boy, propped on his elbow, shrank slightly away. He chewed on his lip. “Which one are you?” he asked suspiciously.

  The live one, he thought of answering, but did not dare in front of Bothari-Jesek. She might mistake it for flippancy. “It doesn’t matter. We’re going to get you out of here just the same.” Truth or not? He had no control over the Dendarii now, still less over the Barrayarans, if indeed as Quinn threatened that was their new destination. Dreary depression washed over him as he stood and followed Bothari-Jesek into the girls’ chamber across the corridor.

  The physical set-up was identical, with bedrolls and sanitary facilities, though with only fifteen girls it was slightly less crowded. A Dendarii was passing out a stack of packaged meals, which lent the chamber a moment of positive activity and interest. The trooper was Sergeant Taura, unmistakable even from the back and dressed in clean grey ship-knits and friction-slippers. She sat cross-legged to reduce her intimidating height. The girls, overcoming fear, crept up to her and even touched her with apparent fascination. Of all the Dendarii Taura had never, even in the most frantic moments, addressed the clones with anything but politely-worded requests. She now had all the air of a fairy-tale heroine trying to make pets of wild animals.

  And succeeding. As Mark came up, two of the clone girls actually skittered around behind the seated sergeant, to peek at him over the protection of her broad shoulders. Taura frowned at him, and looked at Bothari-Jesek, who returned a short nod, It’s all right. He’s with me.

  “S-surprised to see you here, Sergeant,” Mark managed.

  “I volunteered to baby-sit,” rumbled Taura. “I didn’t want anybody bothering them.”

  “Is … that likely to be a problem?” Fifteen beautiful virgins … well, maybe. Sixteen, counting yourself, came a tiny jeer from the back of his brain.

  “Not now,” said Bothari-Jesek firmly.

  “Good,” he said faintly.

  He waffled up the row of mats for a moment. It was all as comfortable and secure as possible, under the circumstances, he supposed. He found the short platinum blonde clone asleep on her side, the soft masses of her body sculpture spilling out of her pink tunic. Embarrassed by his own arrested eye, he knelt and drew her cover up to her chin. His hand, half-unwilled, stole a touch of her fine hair in passing. Guiltily, he glanced up at Taura. “Has she had a dose of synergine?”

  “Yes. We’re letting her sleep it off. She should feel all right when she wakes up.”

  He took one of the sealed meal trays and set it down by the blonde’s head, for when she did wake. Her breathing was slow and steady. There seemed not much else he could do for her. He looked up to catch the Eurasian girl watching him with knowing, malicious eyes, and he turned hastily away.

  Bothari-Jesek completed her inspection and exited, and he followed in her trail. She paused to speak with the stunner-armed guard in the corridor.

  “—wide dispersal,” she was saying. “Shoot first and ask questions later. They’re all young and healthy, you don’t have to worry about hidden heart conditions with this lot, I don’t think. But I doubt they’ll give you much trouble.”

  “With one exception,” Mark put in. “There’s this dark-haired girl, slim, very striking—she appears to have undergone some special mental conditioning. Not … quite sane. Watch out for her.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the trooper automatically, then caught himself, glancing at Bothari-Jesek, ”… uh …”

  “Sergeant Taura confirms the report on that one,” said Bothari-Jesek. “Anyway, I don’t want any of them loose on my ship. They’re totally untrained. Their ignorance could be as dangerous as any hostility. This is not an ornamental guard post. Stay awake.”

  They exchanged parting salutes. The trooper, overcoming reflex, managed not to include Mark in his directed courtesy. Mark trotted after Bothari-Jesek’s long stride.

  “So,” she said after a moment, “does our treatment of your clones meet with your approval?” He could not quite tell if her tone was ironic.

  “It’s as good as anyone could do for them, for now.” He bit his tongue, but the too self-revealing outburst escaped it anyway. “Dammit, it’s not fair!”

  Bothari-Jesek’s brows rose, as she paced along the corridor. “What’s not fair?”

  “I saved these kids—or we did, you did—and they act like we’re some kind of villains, kidnappers, monsters. They’re not happy at all.”

  “Perhaps … it will have to be enough for you just to have saved them. To demand that they be happy about it too may exceed your mandate … little hero.” Her tone was unmistakably ironic now, though oddly devoid of scorn.

  “You’d think there’d be a little gratitude. Belief. Acknowledgement. Something.”

  “Trust?” she said in a quiet voice.

  “Yes, trust! At least from some of them. Can’t any of them tell we’re on the level?”

  “They’ve been rather traumatized. I wouldn’t expect too much if I were you, till they get a chance to see more evidence.” She paused, in speech and stride, and swung to face him. “But if you ever figure it out—figure out how to make an ignorant, traumatized, paranoid stupid kid trust you—tell Miles. He urgently wants to know.”

  Mark stood, nonplussed. “Was that … directed to me?” he demande
d, dry-mouthed.

  She glanced over his head, around the empty corridor, and smiled i bitter, maddening smile. “You’re home.” She nodded pointedly toward his cabin door. “Stay there.”

  He slept at last, for a long time, though when Quinn came to wake him it seemed like not long enough. Mark wasn’t sure if Quinn had slept at all, though she had finally cleaned up and changed back into her officer’s undress greys. He’d been starting to imagine her planning to wear the bloodstained fatigues till they retrieved the cryo-chamber, as some sort of vow. Even without the fatigues she radiated an unsettling edginess, red-eyed and strained.

  “Come on,” she growled. “I need you to talk to Fell again. He’s been giving me a run-around. I’m starting to wonder if he could be in collusion with Bharaputra. I don’t understand, it doesn’t add up.”

  She hauled him off to the tac room again, though this time she did not rely on the ear-bug, but stood aggressively at his elbow. To the outside eye, she’d ranged herself as bodyguard and chief assistant; all Mark could think of was how conveniently placed she was to grab him by the hair and slit his throat.

  Captain Bothari-Jesek sat in, occupying a spare station chair as before, watching quietly. She eyed Quinn’s frazzled demeanor with a look of concern, but said nothing.

  When Fell’s face appeared above the vid plate again, its pinkness was decidedly more irate than jolly. “Admiral Naismith, I told Captain Quinn that when I had firm information, / would contact you.”

  “Baron, Captain Quinn … serves me. Please forgive any importunity on her part. She only, ah, faithfully reflects my own anxieties.” Miles’s typical overflowing vocabulary filled his mouth like flour. Quinn’s fingers bit into his shoulder, silent painful warning that he had better not let his invention carry him too far. “What, shall we say, less-than-firm information can you give us?”

  Fell settled back, frowning but placated. “To put it bluntly, the Bharaputrans say they cannot find your cryo-chamber.”

  “It has to be there,” hissed Quinn.

  “Now, now, Quinnie.” Mark patted her hand. It clamped like a vise. Her nostrils flared murderously, but she achieved a faint false smile for the holovid. Mark turned back to Fell. “Baron—in your best judgment—are the Bharaputrans lying?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Do you have some independent corroboration for your opinion? Agents on site, or anything of the sort?”

  The Baron’s lips twisted. “Really, Admiral, I cannot say.”

  Naturally not. He rubbed his face, a Naismith-thoughtful gesture. “Can you say anything specific about what the Bharaputrans are doing?”

  “They are in fact turning their medical complex inside out right now. All the employees, and all the security forces they brought in to contain your raid, have been engaged in the search.”

  “Could it be an elaborate charade, to mislead us?”

  The Baron paused. “No,” he said flatly at last. “They’re really scrambling. On all levels. Are you aware …” he took a decisive breath, “of what your kidnapping of Baron Bharaputra, if it should prove more than a brief interlude, could do to the balance of power among the Great Houses of Jackson’s Whole?”

  “No, what?”

  The Baron’s chin went up, and he checked Mark sharply for signs of sarcasm. The vertical lines between his eyes deepened, but he answered seriously. “You should realize, the value of your hostage may go down with time. No power-vacuum at the top of a Great House, or even a House Minor, can last long. There are always factions of younger men waiting, perhaps in secret, to rush in and fill it. Even supposing Lotus manages to get Vasa Luigi’s chief loyalist lieutenant to fill and retain his place—as time goes on, it can only dawn on him that the return of his master will involve demotion as well as reward. Think of a Great House as the hydra of mythology. Chop off its head, and seven more arise on the stump of neck—and begin biting each other. Eventually, only one will survive. In the meantime, the House is weakened, and all its old alliances and deals are thrown into doubt. The turmoil expands in a widening ring to associate Houses … such abrupt changes are not welcomed, here. Not by anyone.” Least of all by Baron Fell himself, Mark gathered.

  “Except maybe by your younger colleagues,” Mark suggested.

  A wave of Fell’s hand dismissed the concerns of his younger colleagues. If they wanted power, the wave implied, let them plot and scramble and kill for it as he had.

  “Well, I have no desire to keep Baron Bharaputra till he grows old and moldy,” said Mark. “I have no personal use for him at all, out of this context. Please urge House Bharaputra to speed in finding my brother, eh?”

  “They need no urging.” Fell regarded him coldly. “Be aware, Admiral, if this … situation is not brought to a satisfactory conclusion quickly, Fell Station will not be able to harbor you.”

  “Uh … define quickly.”

  “Very soon. Within another day-cycle.”

  Fell Station surely had enough force to evict the two small Dendarii ships whenever it willed. Or worse than evict. “Understood. Uh … what about unimpeded passage out at Jumppoint Five?” If things did not go well …

  “That … you may have to deal for separately.”

  “Deal how?”

  “If you still had your hostage … I would not desire that you carry Vasa Luigi out of Jacksonian local space. And I am positioned to see that you do not.”

  Quinn’s fist slammed down beside the vid plate. “No!” she cried. “No way! Baron Bharaputra is the only card we have to get my, get the cryo-chamber back. We will not give him up!”

  Fell recoiled slightly. “Captain!” he reproved.

  “We will take him with us if we’re forced out,” Quinn threatened, “and you can all hang out to dry. Or he can walk back from Jumppoint Five without a pressure suit. If we don’t get that cryo-chamber—well, we have better allies than you. And with fewer inhibitions. They won’t care about your profits, or your deals, or your balances. The only question they’ll be asking is whether to start at the north pole, and burn down, or at the south pole, and burn up!”

  Fell grimaced angrily. “Don’t be absurd, Captain Quinn. You speak of a planetary force.”

  Quinn leaned into the vid pick-up and snarled, “Baron, I speak of a multi-planetary force!”

  Bothari-Jesek, startled, made an urgent throat-slicing gesture across her neck, Cut it, Quinn!

  Fell’s eyes went hard and bright as glass glints. “You’re bluffing,” he said at last.

  “I am not. You’d best believe I am not!”

  “No one would do all that for one man. Still less for one corpse.”

  Quinn hesitated. Mark’s hand closed on hers upon his shoulder and squeezed hard to say, Control yourself, dammit. She was on the verge of giving away what she’d practically threatened him with death not to reveal. “You may be right, Baron,” she said finally. “You’d better pray you’re right.”

  After a long moment of silence, Fell inquired mildly, “And just who is this uninhibited ally of yours, Admiral?”

  After an equally long pause, Mark looked up and said sweetly, “Captain Quinn was bluffing, Baron.”

  Fell’s lips drew back on an extremely dry smile. “All Betans are liars,” he said softly. His hand moved to cut the comm; his image faded in the usual haze of sparkles. This time it was his cold smile that seemed to linger, bodiless.

  “Good job, Quinn,” Mark snarled into the silence. “You’ve just let Baron Fell know how much he could really get for that cryo-chamber. And maybe even who from. Now we have two enemies.”

  Quinn was breathing hard, as though she’d been running. “He’s not our enemy; he’s not our friend. Fell serves Fell. Remember that, ’cause he will.”

  “But was Fell lying, or was he merely passing on House Bharaputra’s lies?” Bothari-Jesek asked slowly. “What independent line of profit could Fell possibly have on all this?”

  “Or are they both lying?” said Quinn.


  “What if neither of them are?” asked Mark in irritation. “Have you thought of that? Remember what Norwood—”

  A comm beeper interrupted him. Quinn leaned on her hands on the comconsole to listen.

  “Quinn, this is Bel. That contact I found agrees to meet us at the Ariel’s docking bay. If you want to be in on the interrogation, you need to pod over now.”

  “Yes, right, I’ll be there, Quinn out.” She turned, haggard, and started for the door. “Elena, see that he,” a jerk of her thumb, “is confined to quarters.”

  “Yeah, well, after you talk with whatever Bel dragged in, get yourself some rest, huh, Quinnie? You’re unstrung. You almost lost it back there.”

  Quinn’s ambiguous parting wave acknowledged the truth of this, without making any promises. As Quinn exited, Bothari-Jesek turned to her station console, to order up a personnel pod to be ready for Quinn by the time she arrived at the hatch.

  Mark rose and wandered around the tactics room, his hands thrust carefully into his pockets. A dozen real-time and holo-schematic display consoles sat dark and still; communication and encoding systems lay silent. He pictured the tactics nerve center fully staffed, alive and bright and chaotic, heading into battle. He imagined enemy fire peeling the ship open like a meal tray, all that life smashed and burned and spilled into the hard radiation and vacuum of space. Fire from House Fell’s station at Jumppoint Five, say, as the Peregrine fought for escape. He shuddered, nauseated.

  He paused before the sealed door to the briefing chamber. Bothari-Jesek was now engaged in some other communication, some decision having to do with the security of their Fell Station moorings. Curious, he laid his palm upon the lock-pad. Somewhat to his surprise, the door slid demurely open. Somebody had some re-programming to do, if all top-secured Dendarii facilities were keyed to admit a dead man’s palm print. A lot of re-programming—Miles doubtless had it fixed so he could just waft right through anywhere in the fleet. That would be his style.

  Bothari-Jesek glanced up, but said nothing. Taking that as tacit permission, Mark walked into the briefing room, and circled the table. Lights came up for him as he paced. Thorne’s words, spoken here, echoed in his head. Norwood said, The Admiral will get out of here even if we don’t. How carefully had the Dendarii examined their recordings of the drop mission? Surely someone had been over them all several times by now. What could he possibly see that they hadn’t? They knew their people, their equipment. But I know the medical complex. I know Jackson’s Whole.