So. He knew what Mark was. Maybe it was more important to realize what he was not. Mark was not a duplicate of Miles himself, despite Galen's best efforts. Was not even the brother of an only-child's dreams; Ivan, with whom Miles shared clan, friends, Barrayar, private memories of the ever-receding past, was a hundred times more his brother than Mark could ever be. It was just possible he had under-appreciated Ivan's merits. Botched beginnings could never be replayed, though they could be—Miles glanced down at his legs, seeing in his mind's eye the artificial bones within—repaired. Sometimes.
"Yeah, why?" Ivan put in at Miles's lengthening silence.
"What," piped Miles, "don't you like your new cousin? Where's your family feeling?"
"One of you is more than enough, thanks. Your Evil Twin here," Ivan made a horned-finger gesture, "is more than I can take. Besides, you both keep locking me in closets."
"Ah, but at least I called for volunteers."
"Yeah, I know that one. 'I want three volunteers, you, you, and you.' You used to bully me and your bodyguard's daughter around that way even before you were in the military, back when we were little kids. I remember."
"Born to command." Miles grinned briefly. Mark's brows lowered, as the apparently tried to imagine Miles as playground bully to the very large and healthy Ivan. "It's a mental trick," Miles informed him.
He studied Mark, who squatted uncomfortably, drawing his head down into his shoulders like a turtle against his gaze. Was this evil? Confusion, to be sure. Distortion of spirit as well as body—though Galen could have been only a little more awful as a child's mentor than Miles's own grandfather. But to be properly sociopathic one must be self-centered to an extreme degree, which did not seem to describe Mark; he had hardly been permitted to have a self at all. Maybe he was not self-centered enough. "Are you Evil?" Miles asked lightly.
"I'm a murderer, aren't I?" sneered Mark. "What more d'you want?"
"Was that murder? I thought I sensed some element of confusion."
"He grabbed the nerve disrupter. I didn't want to give it up. It went off." Mark's face was pale in memory, white and deeply shadowed in the sharp sideways illumination cast by Miles's handlight stuck to the wall. "I meant it to go off."
Ivan's brows rose, but Miles ruthlessly did not pause to fill him in. "Unpremeditated, perhaps," suggested Miles.
Mark shrugged.
"If you were free …" began Miles slowly.
Mark's lips rippled. "Free? Me? What chance? The police will have found the body by now."
"No. The tide was up over the rail. The sea has taken it. Might be three, four days before it surfaces again. If it surfaces again." And a repellent object it would be by then. Would Captain Galeni wish to reclaim it, have it properly buried? Where was Galeni? "Suppose you were free. Free of Barrayar and Komarr, free of me too. Free of Galen and the police. Free of obsession. What would you choose? Who are you? Or are you only reaction, never action?"
Mark twitched visibly. "Suck slime."
One corner of Miles's mouth curved up. He scuffed his boot through the gook on the floor, stopped himself before he began doodling with his toe. "I don't suppose you'll ever know as long as I'm standing over you."
Mark spat the dregs of his hatred. "You're the free one!"
"Me?" Miles was almost genuinely startled. "I'll never be as free as you are right now. You were yoked to Galen by fear. His control only equalled his reach, and both were broken together. I'm yoked by—other things. Waking or sleeping, near or for, makes no difference. Yet . . . Barrayar can be an interesting place, seen through other eyes than Galen's. The man's own son saw the possibilities."
Mark smirked sourly, staring at the wall. "You making another play for my body?"
"For what? It's not like you have the height my—our—genes intended or something. And my bones are all on their way to becoming plastic anyway. No advantage there."
"I'd be in reserve, then. A spare in case of accidents."
Miles threw up his hands. "You don't even believe that any more. But my original offer still stands. Come with me back to the Dendarii, and I'll hide you. Smuggle you home. Where you can take your time and figure out how to be real Mark, and not imitation anybody."
"I don't want to meet those people," Mark stated flatly.
By which he meant, his mother and father; Miles caught that without difficulty, though Ivan was clearly losing the thread. "I don't think they would behave inappropriately. After all, they're already in you, on a fundamental level. You, ah, can't run away from yourself." He paused, tried again. "If you could do anything, what would it be?"
Mark's scowl deepened. "Bust up the clone business on Jackson's Whole."
"Hm." Miles considered. "It's pretty entrenched. Still, what d'you expect of the descendants of a colony that started as a hijacker base? Naturally they developed into an aristocracy. I'll have to tell you a couple of stories about your ancestors sometime that aren't in the official histories …" So, Mark had picked up that much good from his association with Galen, a thirst for justice that went beyond his own skin even if including it. "As life-goals go, it would certainly keep you occupied. How would you go about it?"
"I don't know." Mark appeared taken aback by this sudden practical turn. "Blow up the labs. Rescue the lads."
"Good tactics, bad strategy. They'd just rebuild. You need more than one level of attack. If you figured out some way to make the business unprofitable, it would die on its own."
"How?" Mark asked in turn.
"Let's see . . . There's the customer base. Unethical rich people. One could hardly expect to persuade them to choose death over life, I suppose. A medical breakthrough offering some other form of personal life extension might divert them."
"Killing them would divert them, too," growled Mark.
"True, but impractical in the mass. People of that class tend to have bodyguards. Sooner or later one would get you, and it would be all over. Look, there must be forty points of attack. Don't get stuck on the first one to come to mind. For example, suppose you returned with me to Barrayar. As Lord Mark Vorkosigan, you could expect in time to amass a personal and financial power base. Complete your education—really fit yourself out to attack the problem strategically, not just, ah, fling yourself off the first wall you come to and go splat."
"I will never," said Mark through his teeth, "go to Barrayar."
Yeah, and it seems like all the upper-percentile women in the galaxy are in complete agreement with you . . . you may be smarter than you know. Miles sighed under his breath. Quinn, Quinn, Quinn, where are you? In the corridor, the police were now loading the last unconscious assassins onto a float pallet. The break would come soon, or not at all.
Ivan was staring at him, Miles realized. "You're completely loony," Ivan stated with conviction.
"What, don't you think it's time somebody took those Jackson's Whole bastards on?"
"Sure, but …"
"I can't be everywhere. But I could support the project," Miles glanced at Mark, "if you're all done trying to be me, that is. Are you?"
Mark watched the last of die assassins get wafted away. "You can have it. It's a wonder you're not trying to switch identities with me." His head swivelled toward Miles in suddenly renewed suspicion.
Miles laughed, painfully. What a temptation. Ditch his uniform, walk into a tubeway, and disappear with a credit chit for half a million marks in his pocket. To be a free man . . . His eye fell on Ivan's grimy Imperial dress greens, symbol of their service. You are what you do—choose again. . . . No. Barrayar's ugliest child would choose to be her champion still. Not crawl into a hole and be no one at all.
Speaking of holes, it was high time to crawl out of this one. The last of the police combat team was marching away past the curve of the corridor after the float pallet. Tidal techs would be all over the place shortly. Better move fast.
"Time to go," Miles said, shutting down the scanner and retrieving his handlight.
Ivan grunted r
elief, and reached up to pull the hatch open. He boosted Miles through. Miles in turn tossed him a line from his rappelling spool as before. Panic flooded Mark's face for a moment, looking up at Miles framed in the exit, as he realized why he might be last; his expression became closed again as Miles lowered the line. Miles plucked his scanner fisheye and returned it to its case, and keyed his wrist comm. "Nim, status report," he whispered.
"We've got both cars back in the air, sir, about a kilometer inland. The police have cordoned off your area. The place is crawling with 'em."
"All right. Anything from Quinn?"
"No change."
"Give me her exact coordinates inside the tower."
Nim did so.
"Very good. I'm inside the Barrier near Tower Six with Lieutenant Vorpatril of the Barrayaran Embassy and my clone. We're going to attempt to exit via Tower Seven and pick up Quinn on the way. Or at least," Miles swallowed past a stupidly tightened throat, "find out what happened to her. Hold your present station. Naismith out."
They pulled off their boots and padded south down the corridor, hugging the wall. Miles could hear voices, but they were behind them. The T intersection was now lit. Miles held up his hand as they approached, oozed to the corner, and peeked around. A man in Tidal Authority coveralls and a uniformed constable were examining the hatch. Their backs were turned. Miles waved Mark and Ivan forward. They all flitted silently past the tunnel mouth.
There was a police guard stationed in the lift tube foyer at the base of Tower Seven. Miles, boots in one hand and stunner in the other, bared his teeth in frustration. So much for his optimistic hope of exiting without leaving a trace.
No help for it. Maybe they could make up in speed what they were going to lack in finesse. Besides, the man now stood between Miles and Quinn, and thus deserved his fate. Miles aimed his stunner and fired. The constable collapsed.
They floated up the tube. This level, Miles pointed silently. The corridor was brightly lit, but there were no subtle people-sounds that Miles could hear. He paced off the meters that Nim had read out to him, and stopped before a closed door marked utility. His stomach was turning over. Suppose the Cetagandans had arranged a slow death for her, suppose the minutes Miles had spent so cool and sensible hiding out had made all the difference. . . .
The door was locked. The control had been buggered. Miles ripped it apart, shorted it out, and heaved the door open manually, nearly snapping his splayed fingers.
She lay in a tumbled heap, too pale and still. Miles fell to his knees beside her. Throat pulse, throat pulse—there was one. Her skin was warm, her chest rose and fell. Stunned, only stunned. Only stunned. He looked up at a blurred Ivan hovering anxiously, swallowed, and steadied his ragged breathing. It had, after all, been the most logical possibility.
Chapter Sixteen
They paused at the side entrance of Tower Seven to pull their boots back on. The park strip lay between them and the city, spangled with white sparks and green patches along the illuminated walks, dark and mysterious between. Miles estimated the run to the nearest bushes, and triangulated the police vehicles scattered about the parking areas.
"I don't suppose you have your hip flask with you?" Miles whispered to Ivan.
"If I had I'd have emptied it hours ago. Why?"
"I was just wondering how to explain three guys dragging an unconscious woman through the park at this hour of the night. If we sprinkled Quinn with a little brandy, we could at least pretend to be taking her home from a party or something. Stunner hangover's enough like the real thing, it'd be convincing even if she started to wake up groggy."
"I trust she has a sense of humor. Well, what's a little character assassination among friends?"
"Better than the real thing."
"Urgh. Anyway, I don't have my flask. Are we ready?"
"I guess. No, hold it—" Another aircar was dropping down. Civilian, but the police guard at the main tower entrance went to meet it. An older man got out, and they hurried back to the tower together. "Now."
Ivan took Quinn's shoulders and Mark took her feet. Miles stepped carefully over the stunned body of the policeman who had been guarding this exit, and they all double-timed it across the pavement toward cover.
"God, Miles," panted Ivan as they paused in the greenery to scan the next leg, "why don't you go in for little petite women? It'd make more sense. …"
"Now, now. She only weighs about double a full field pack. You can make it. . . ." No shouting from behind, no hurrying pursuers. The area closest to the tower was actually probably the safest. It would have been scanned and swept before now, and pronounced clean of intruders. Police attention would be concentrated at the park's border. Which they would have to cross, to reach the city and escape.
Miles stared into the shadows. With all the artificial lighting about, his eyes were not dark-adapting as well as he'd like,
Ivan stared too. "I can't spot any coppers in the bushes," he muttered.
"I'm not looking for police," Miles whispered back.
"What, then?"
"Mark said a man wearing face paint fired at him. Have you seen anybody wearing face paint yet?"
"Ah . . . maybe the police nabbed him first, before we saw the others." But Ivan looked over his shoulder.
"Maybe. Mark—what color was the face? What pattern?"
"Mostly blue. With white and yellow and black kind of swirling slashes. A ghem-lord of middle rank, right?"
"A century-captain. If you were supposed to be me you should be able to read ghem-markings forward and backward."
"There was so much to learn. …"
"Anyway, Ivan—do you really want to just assume a century-captain, highly trained, sent from headquarters, formally sworn to his hunt, really let some London constable sneak up and stun him? The others were just ordinary soldiers. The Cetagandans will bail 'em out later. A ghem-lord'd die before he'd let himself be so embarrassed. He'll be a persistent bugger, too."
Ivan rolled his eyes. "Wonderful."
They wound through a couple hundred meters of trees, shrubbery and shadows. The hiss and hum of traffic on the main coastal highway came faintly now. The pedestrian underpasses were doubtless guarded. The high-speed highway was fenced and strictly forbidden to foot traffic.
A synthacrete kiosk cloaked with bushes and vines hopeful of concealing its blunt utility squatted near the main path to the pedestrian underpass. At first Miles took it for a public latrine, but a closer look revealed only one blank locked door. The spotlights that should have illuminated that side were knocked out. As Miles watched, the door began to slide slowly aside. A weapon in a pale hand glittered faintly in the blackness. Mile aimed his stunner and held his breath. The dark shape of a man slipped out.
Miles exhaled. "Captain Galeni!' he hissed. Galeni jerked as though shot, crouched, and scurried toward them, joining them in their concealment on hands and knees. He swore under his breath, discovering, as Miles had, that this grouping of ornamental shrubs had thorns. His eyes took instant inventory of the ragged little group, Miles and Mark, Ivan and Elli. "I'll be damned. You're still alive."
"I'd sort of been wondering about you, too," Miles admitted.
Galeni looked—Galeni looked bizarre, Miles decided. Gone was the blank witnessing stillness that had absorbed Ser Galen's death without comment. He was almost grinning, electric with a slightly off-center exhilaration, as if he'd overdone some stimulant drug. He was breathing heavily; his face was bruised, mouth bloody. His swollen hand flexed on his weapon—last seen weaponless, he was now carrying a Cetagandan military-issue plasma arc. A knife hilt stuck out of his boot top.
"Have you, ah, run into a guy wearing blue face paint yet?" Miles inquired.
"Oh yes," said Galeni in a tone of some satisfaction.
"What the hell happened to you? Sir."
Galeni spoke in a rapid whisper. "I couldn't find an entrance in the Barrier near where I'd left you. I spotted that utilities access over there," he jerked hi
s head toward the kiosk, "and thought there might be some power optic or water line tunnels back to the Barrier. I was half-right. There are utility tunnels all under this park. But I got turned around underground, and instead of coming out in the Barrier, I ended up coming out a port in the pedestrian crossing under the Channel Highway. Where I found guess who?"
Miles shook his head. "Police? Cetagandans? Barrayarans?"
"Close. It was my old friend and opposite number from the Cetagandan Embassy, Ghem-lieutenant Tabor. It actually took me a couple of minutes to realize what he was doing there. Playing outer-perimeter backup to the experts from HQ. Same as I would have been doing if I hadn't been," Galeni snickered, "confined to quarters.
"He was not happy to see me," Galeni went on. "He couldn't figure what the hell I was doing there either. We both pretended to be out viewing the moon, while I got a look at the equipment he had packed in his groundcar. He may have actually believed me; I think he thought I was drunk or drugged."
Miles politely refrained from remarking, I can see why.
"But then he started getting signals from his team, and had to get rid of me in a hurry. He pulled a stunner on me—I ducked—he didn't hit me square on, but I lay low pretending to be more disabled than I was, listening to his half of the conversation with the squad in the tower and hoping for a chance to reverse the situation.
"The feeling was just coming back to the left half of my body when your blue friend showed up. His arrival distracted Tabor, and I jumped them both."
Miles's brows rose. "How the devil did you manage that?"
Galeni's hands were flexing as he spoke. "I don't . . . quite know," he admitted. "I remember hitting them. …" He glanced at Mark. "It was nice to have a clearly defined enemy for a change."
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