Mirror Dance b-9

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  “Thank you.”

  The medic was surly.

  “Look, I’ve been through this. For hours on end. We’re done.”

  “I promise I’ll keep it brief,” Mark assured him. “Just one question.”

  The medic eyed Mark malignantly, perhaps correctly identifying him as the reason why he’d been stuck ship-bound in Komarr orbit for the last dozen weeks.

  “When you and Norwood were taking your cryonics training at Beauchene Life Center, do you ever remember meeting a Dr. Durona? Handing out lab supplies, maybe?”

  “The place was knee-deep in doctors. No. Can I go now?” The medic made to rise.

  “Wait!”

  “That was your one question. And the ImpSec goons asked it before you.”

  “And that was the answer you gave them? Wait. Let me think.” Mark bit his lip anxiously. The name alone was not enough to hare off on, not even for him. There had to be more. “Do you ever remember … Norwood being in contact with a tall, striking woman with Eurasian features, straight black hair, brown eyes … extremely smart.” He didn’t dare to suggest an age. It could be anywhere between twenty and sixty.

  The medic stared at him in astonishment. “Yeah! How did you know?”

  “What was she? What was her relation with Norwood?”

  “She was a student too, I think. He was chasing her for a time, playing off his military glamour to the hilt, but I don’t think he caught her.”

  “Do you remember her name?”

  “Roberta, or something like that. Rowanna. I don’t remember.”

  “Was she from Jackson’s Whole?”

  “Escobaran, I thought.” The medic shrugged. “The clinic had post-doc trainees from all over the planet to take residencies in cryo-revival. I never talked to her. I saw her with Norwood a couple of times. He might have figured we’d try to cut him out with her.”

  “So the clinic is a top place. With a wide reputation.”

  “We thought so.”

  “Wait here.” Mark left the medic sitting in the Ariel’s little briefing room, and rushed out to find Quinn. He hadn’t far to rush. She was waiting in the corridor, her boot tapping.

  “Quinn, quick! I need a visual off Sergeant Taura’s helmet recorder from the drop mission. Just one still.”

  “ImpSec confiscated the originals.”

  “You kept copies, surely.”

  She smiled sourly. “Maybe.”

  “Please, Quinn!”

  “Wait here.” She returned promptly, and handed him a data disk. This time she followed him into the briefing room. Since the secured console wouldn’t take his palm-print any more no matter how he wriggled it, Mark perforce let her power it up. He fast-forwarded Taura’s visuals to the image he wanted. A close-up of a tall, dark-haired girl, her head turning, eyes wide. Mark blurred the background of the clone-creche, in the view.

  Only then did he motion the medic to look.

  “Hey!”

  “Is it her?”

  “It’s …” the medic peered. “She’s younger. But it’s her. Where did you get that?”

  “Never mind. Thank you. I won’t take any more of your time. You’ve been a great help.”

  The medic exited as reluctantly as he had entered, staring back over his shoulder.

  “What’s this all about, Mark?” Quinn demanded.

  “When we’re on my ship and on our way, I’ll tell you. Not before.” He had a head-start on ImpSec, and he wasn’t going to give it up. If they were anything less than desperate, they’d never let him go, Countess or no Countess. It was quite fair; he didn’t have any information ImpSec didn’t, potentially. He’d just put it together a little differently.

  “Where the hell did you get a ship?”

  “My mother gave it to me.” He tried not to smirk.

  “The Countess? Rats! She’s turning you loose?”

  “Don’t begrudge me my little ship, Quinn. After all, my parents gave my big brother a whole fleet of ships.” His eyes gleamed. “I’ll see you on board, as soon as Captain Bothari-Jesek reports it ready.”

  His ship. Not stolen, nothing faked or false. His by right of legitimate gift. He who’d never had a birthday present, had one now. Twenty-two years’ worth.

  The little yacht was a generation old, formerly owned by a Komarran oligarch in the balmy days before the Barrayaran conquest. It had been quite luxurious, once, but obviously had been neglected for the past ten years or so. This did not represent hard times for the Komarran clan, Mark understood; they were in process of replacing it, hence the sale. The Komarrans understood business, and the Vor understood the relation between business and taxation. Business under the new regime had recovered much of its former vigor.

  Mark had declared the yacht’s lounge to be the mission-briefing room. He glanced around now at his invitees, draped variously over the furniture secured to the carpeted deck around a fake fireplace that ran a vid program of atavistic dancing flames, complete with infra-red radiance.

  Quinn was there, of course, still in her Dendarii uniform. She had entirely overgrazed her fingernails and had taken to cheek-biting instead. Bel Thorne sat silent and reserved, a permanent bleakness emphasizing the fine lines around its eyes. Sergeant Taura loomed next to Thorne, big and puzzled and wary.

  It was no strike-group. Mark wondered if he ought to have packed along more muscle … no. If there was one thing his first mission had taught him, it was that if you didn’t have enough force to win, it was better not to engage force at all. What he had done was cream off the maximum expertise the Dendarii could supply on the subject of Jackson’s Whole.

  Captain Bothari-Jesek entered, and gave him a nod. “We’re on our way. We’ve broken orbit, and your pilot has the comm. Twenty hours to the first jump point.”

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  Quinn made a place beside her for Bothari-Jesek; Mark sat on the fake fieldstone hearth with his back to the crackling flames, his hands clasped loosely between his knees. He took a deep breath. “Welcome aboard, and thank you all for coming. You all understand, this is not in official Dendarii expedition, and is neither authorized nor funded by ImpSec. Our expenses are being privately paid by Countess Vorkosigan. You are all listed as being on unpaid personal leave. With one exception, I have no formal authority over any of you. Nor you over me. We do have an urgent mutual interest, which demands we pool our skills and information. The first piece is the proper identity of Admiral Naismith. You’ve brought Captain Thorne and Sergeant Taura up to speed on that, haven’t you, Quinn?”

  Bel Thorne nodded. “Old Tung and I had it figured out a long time ago. Miles’s secret identity isn’t as secret as he hoped, I’m afraid.”

  “It was news to me,” rumbled Sergeant Taura. “It sure explained a lot I’d wondered about, though.”

  “Welcome to the Inner Circle anyway,” said Quinn. “Officially.” She turned to Mark. “All right, what do you have? A connection, finally?”

  “Oh, Quinn. I’m up to my ass in connections. It’s motive I’m missing now.”

  “You’re ahead of ImpSec, then.”

  “Maybe not for long. They’ve sent an agent to Escobar for more details on the Beauchene Life Center—they’re bound to make the same connection I did. Eventually. But I planned this expedition with a primary list of twenty sites on Jackson’s Whole to re-check in depth. As a result of something I found in Norwood’s personal effects, I’ve altered the order of the list. If Miles gets revived—which is part of my hypothesis—how long d’you think it would be till he did something to draw attention to himself?”

  “Not long,” said Bothari-Jesek reluctantly.

  Quinn nodded wryly. “Though he could well wake amnesic, for a time.” Or forever, she did not add aloud, though Mark could see the fear in her face. “It’s almost more normal than not, in cryo-revivals.”

  “The thing is—ImpSec and we are not the only ones looking for him. I’m getting a timing-itch. Whose attention will he draw fir
st?”

  “Mm,” said Quinn glumly. Thorne and Taura exchanged a worried look.

  “All right.” Mark rubbed his hands through his hair. He did not rise and pace, Miles-fashion; for one thing, Quinn’s disapproving glances made him feel like he was starting to waddle. “Here’s what I found and here’s what I think. When Norwood was on Escobar for his cryo-prep training, he met a certain Dr. Roberta or Rowanna Durona, from Jackson’s Whole, who was there also taking a residency in cryo-revival. They had some positive relationship, enough, anyway, that when Norwood was cornered at Bharaputra’s, he remembered her. And trusted her enough to ship her the cryo-chamber. Remember, Norwood was also under the impression at this time that House Fell was our ally. Because the Durona Group works for House Fell.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Quinn instantly. “House Fell claims not to have the cryo-chamber!”

  Mark held up a restraining hand. “Let me give you a little Jacksonian history, as far as I know it. About ninety or a hundred years ago—”

  “My God, Lord Mark, how long is this story going to be?” asked Bothari-Jesek. Quinn glanced up sharply at her use of the Barrayaran honorific.

  “Bear with me. You have to understand who the Durona Group is. About ninety years ago, the present Baron Ryoval’s father was setting up his arcane little genetic slave-trade, the manufacture of humans to order. At some point it occurred to him: Why hire genius from outside? Grow your own. Mental properties are the most elusive to create genetically, but the old Ryoval was a genius himself. He started a project that culminated in the creation of a woman he named Lilly Durona. She was to be his medical research muse, his slave-doctor. In both senses.

  “She grew, was trained, and put to work. And she was brilliant. About this time the old Baron Ryoval died, not too mysteriously, during an early attempt at a brain transplant.

  “I say not too mysteriously because of the character his son and successor, the present Baron Ryoval, immediately revealed. His first project was to get rid of all his potential sibling-rivals. The old man had sired a lot of children. Ryoval’s early career is something of a Jacksonian legend. The eldest and most dangerous males, he simply had assassinated. The females and some of the younger males he sent to his body-modification laboratories, and thence to his very-private bordellos, to service the customers on that side of the business. I suppose they’re all dead by now. If they’re lucky.

  “Ryoval also, apparently, used this direct management approach on the staff he had inherited. His father had handled Lilly Durona as a cherished treasure, but the new Baron Ryoval threatened to send her after his sisters, to satisfy the biological fantasies of his customers directly, if she didn’t cooperate. She began to plot her escape with a despised young half-brother of Ryoval’s by the name of Georish Stauber.”

  “Ah! Baron Fell!” said Thorne. Thorne was looking enlightened, Taura fascinated, Quinn and Bothari-Jesek horrified.

  “The same, but not yet. Lilly and young Georish escaped to the protection of House Fell. In fact, I gather that Lilly was Georish’s ticket in. They both set up in service to their new masters, with considerable negotiated autonomy, at least on Lilly’s part. It was the Deal. Deals are as semi-sacred as anything can be, on Jackson’s Whole.

  “Georish began to rise through the ranks of House Fell. And Lilly began the Durona Research Group by cloning herself. Again and again. The Durona Group, which is now up to thirty or forty cloned sisters, serves House Fell in several ways. It’s sort of a family doctor for upper level Fell executives who don’t want to entrust their health to outside specialist houses like Bharaputra. And since House Fell’s stock in trade is weapons, they’ve done R&D on military poisons and biologicals. And their antidotes. The Durona Group made House Fell a small fortune on Peritaint, and a few years later made it a huge fortune on Peritaint’s antidote. The Durona Group is kind of quietly famous, if you follow that sort of thing. Which ImpSec does. There was a pile of stuff on ’em even in the stripped-down files they let me see. Though most of this is common knowledge on Jackson’s Whole.

  “Georish, not least owing to the coup he brought House Fell in the person of Lilly, ascended to the pinnacle a few years back when he became Baron Fell. Now, enter the Dendarii Mercenaries. And now you have to tell me what happened.” Mark nodded to Bel Thorne. “I’ve only caught garbled bits.”

  Bel whistled. “I knew some of this, but I don’t think I’d ever heard the whole story. No wonder Fell and Ryoval hate each other.” It glanced at Quinn: she nodded permission to proceed. “Well, about four years ago, Miles brought the Dendarii a little contract. It was for a pick-up. Our Employer—excuse me, Barrayar, I’ve been calling them Our Employer for so long it’s a reflex.”

  “Keep that reflex,” Mark advised.

  Bel nodded. “The Imperium wanted to import a galactic geneticist. I don’t quite know why.” It glanced at Quinn.

  “Nor do you need to,” said she.

  “But a certain Dr. Canaba, who was then one of House Bharaputra’s top genetics people, wanted to defect. House Bharaputra takes a lethally dim view of employees departing with a head full of trade secrets, so Canaba needed help. He struck a deal with the Barrayaran Imperium to take him in.”

  “That’s where I come from,” Taura put in.

  “Yes,” said Thorne. “Taura was one of his pet projects. He, um, insisted on taking her along. Unfortunately, the super-soldier project had recently been canceled, and Taura sold to Baron Ryoval, who collects genetic, excuse me Sergeant, oddities. So we had to break her out of House Ryoval, in addition to breaking Canaba out of House Bharaputra. Um, Taura, you’d better say what happened next.”

  “The Admiral came and rescued me from Ryoval’s main biologicals facility,” the big woman rumbled. She heaved a large sigh, as if at some sweet memory. “In the process of escaping, we totally destroyed House Ryoval’s main gene banks. A hundred-year-old tissue collection went up in smoke. Literally.” She smiled, baring her fangs.

  “House Ryoval lost about fifty percent of its assets that night, Baron Fell estimated,” Thorne added. “At least.”

  Mark hooted, then sobered. “That explains why you all think Baron Ryoval’s people will be hunting for Admiral Naismith.”

  “Mark,” said Thorne desperately, “if Ryoval finds Miles first, he’ll have him revived just so he can kill him again. And again. And again. That’s why we were all so insistent that you play Miles, when we were pulling out of Jackson’s Whole. Ryoval has no motive to take revenge on the clone, just on the Admiral.”

  “I see. Gee. Thanks. Ah, whatever happened to Dr. Canaba? If I may ask.”

  “He was delivered safely,” said Quinn. “He has a new name, a new face, a new laboratory, and a salary that ought to keep him happy. A loyal new subject for the Imperium.”

  “Hm. Well, that brings me to the other cross-connection. It’s not a new or secret one, though I don’t know yet what to make of it. Neither does ImpSec, incidentally, though as a result of it they’ve sent agents to check the Durona Group twice. Baronne Lotus Bharaputra, the Baron’s wife, is a Durona clone.”

  Taura’s clawed hand flew to her lips. “That girl!”

  “Yes, that girl. I wondered why she gave me the cold chills. I’d seen her before, in another incarnation. The clone of a clone.

  “The Baronne is one of the oldest of Lilly Durona’s clone daughters, or sisters, or whatever you want to call the tribe. Hive. She didn’t sell herself cheaply. Lotus went renegade for one of the biggest bribes in Jacksonian history—co-control, or nearly so, of House Bharaputra. She’s been Baron Bharaputra’s mate for twenty years. And now it seems she’s getting one other thing. The Durona Group among them have an astonishing range of bio-expertise, but they refuse to do clone-brain transplants. It was written right into Lilly Durona’s foundation-deal with House Fell. But Baronne Bharaputra, who must be over sixty-standard, apparently plans to embark on her second youth very shortly. Judging from what we witnessed.”

&n
bsp; “Rats,” muttered Quinn.

  “So that’s another cross-connection,” said Mark. “In fact, it’s a damned cat’s cradle of cross-connections, once you get hold of the right thread. But it doesn’t explain, to me at least, why the Durona Group would conceal Miles from their own House Fell bosses. Yet they must have done so.”

  “If they have him,” Quinn said, gnawing on her cheek.

  “If,” Mark conceded. “Although,” he brightened slightly, “it would explain why that incriminating cryo-chamber ended up in the Hegen Hub. The Durona Group wasn’t trying to hide it from ImpSec. They were trying to hide it from other Jacksonians.”

  “It almost all fits,” said Thorne.

  Mark opened his hands and held them apart palm to palm, as if invisible threads ran back and forth between them. “Yeah. Almost.” He closed his hands together. “So here we are. And there we’re going. Our first trick will be to re-enter Jacksonian space past Fell’s jump point station. Captain Quinn has brought along quite a kit for doctoring our identities. Coordinate your ideas with her on that one. We have ten days to play with it.”

  The group broke up, to study the new problems each in his, her, or its own way. Bothari-Jesek and Quinn lingered as Mark rose, and stretched his aching back. His aching brain.

  “That was quite a pretty piece of analysis, Mark,” said Quinn grudgingly. “If it’s not all hot air.”

  She ought to know. “Thank you, Quinn,” he said sincerely. He too prayed it wouldn’t all turn out to be hallucinatory, an elaborate mistake.

  “Yes … he’s changed a bit, I think,” Bothari-Jesek observed judiciously. “Grown.”

  “Yeah?” Quinn’s gaze swept him, up and down. “True …”

  Mark’s heart warmed in hungry anticipation of a crumb of approval.

  “—he’s fatter.”

  “Let’s get to work,” Mark growled.