Miles Errant

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  "If he has Ivan—"

  "He had to bring some card to the table, or he wouldn't come play. We've got one last chance to make it come out right. Not a good chance, just the last one. Are you with me?"

  A slight pause. "Yes." The tone was decisive.

  "See you there."

  Pocketing the link, Miles turned to Elli. "Now we move."

  They swung through the shuttle hatch. For once, Miles had no objection to Ptarmigan's habit of taking all downside flights at combat-drop speed.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Thames Tidal Barrier, known to local wags as the King Canute Memorial, was a vastly more impressive structure seen from a hundred meters up than it had seemed from the kilometers-high view from the shuttle. The aircar banked, circling. The synthacrete mountain ran away in both directions farther than Miles's eye could follow, whitened into an illusion of marble by the spotlights that knifed through the faintly misty midnight blackness.

  Watchtowers every kilometer housed not soldiers guarding the wall but the night shift of engineers and technicians watching over the sluices and pumping stations. To be sure, if the sea ever broke through, it would raze the city more mercilessly than any army.

  But the sea was calm this summer night, dotted with colored navigation lights, red, green, white, and the distant moving twinkle of ships' running lights. The eastern horizon glowed faintly, false dawn from the radiant cities of Europe beyond the waters. On the other side of the white barrier toward ancient London, all the dirt and grime and broken places were swallowed by the night, leaving only the jewelled illusion of something magic, unmarred and immortal.

  Miles pressed his face to the aircar's bubble canopy for a last strategic view of the arena they were about to enter before the car dropped toward the near-empty parking area behind the Barrier. Section Six was peripheral to the main channel sections with their enormous navigation locks busy around the clock; it was just dike and auxiliary pumping stations, nearly deserted at this hour. That suited Miles. If the situation devolved into some sort of shooting war, the fewer civilian bystanders wandering through the better. Catwalks and ladders ran to access ports in the structure, geometric black accents on the whiteness; spidery railings marked walkways, some broad and public, some narrow, reserved no doubt to Authorized Personnel. At present they all appeared deserted. No sign of Galen or Mark. No sign of Ivan.

  "What's significant about 0207?" Miles wondered aloud. "I have the feeling it should be obvious. It's such an exact time."

  Elli the space-born shook her head, but the Dendarii soldier piloting the aircar volunteered, "It's high tide, sir."

  "Ah!" said Miles. He sat back, thinking furiously. "How interesting. It suggests two things. They've concealed Ivan around here someplace—and we might do best to concentrate our search below the high waterline. Could they have chained him to a railing down by the rocks or some damned thing?"

  "The air patrol could make a pass and check," said Quinn.

  "Yes, have them do that."

  The aircar settled into a painted circle on the pavement.

  Quinn and the second soldier exited first, cautiously, and ran a fast perimeter scan around the area. "There's somebody approaching on foot," the soldier reported.

  "Pray it's Captain Galeni," Miles muttered, with a glance at his chrono. Seven minutes remained of his time limit.

  It was a man jogging with his dog. The pair stared at the four uniformed Dendarii and arced nervously around them to the far side of the parking lot before disappearing through the bushes softening the north end. Everybody took their hands off their stunners. Civilized town, thought Miles. You wouldn't do that at this hour in some parts of Vorbarr Sultana, unless you had a much bigger dog.

  The soldier checked his infra-red. "Here comes another one."

  Not the soft pad of running shoes this time, but the quick ring of boots. Miles recognized the sound of the boots before he could make out the face in the splash of light and shadow. Galeni's uniform turned from dark gray to green as he entered the lot's zone of brighter illumination, walking fast.

  "All right," said Miles to Elli, "this is where we split off. Stay back and out of sight at all costs, but if you can find a vantage, good. Wrist comm open?"

  Elli keyed her wrist comm. Miles pulled his boot knife and used the point to disengage and extinguish the tiny transmit-indicator light in his own wrist comm, then blew into it; the hiss of it whispered from Elli's wrist. "Sending fine," she confirmed.

  "Got your med scanner?"

  She displayed it.

  "Take a baseline."

  She pointed it at him, waved it up and down. "Recorded and ready for auto-comparison."

  "Can you think of anything else?"

  She shook her head, but still didn't look happy. "What do I do if he comes walking back and you don't?"

  "Grab him, fast-penta him—got your interrogation kit?"

  She flashed open her jacket; a small brown case peeped from an inner pocket.

  "Rescue Ivan if you can. Then," Miles took a deep breath, "you can blow the clone's head off or whatever you choose."

  "What happened to 'my brother right or wrong'?" said Elli.

  Galeni, coming up in the middle of this, cocked his head with interest to hear the answer to that one, but Miles only shook his head. He couldn't think of a simple answer.

  "Three minutes left," said Miles to Galeni. "We better move."

  They headed up a walk that led to a set of stairs, stepping over the chain that marked them as closed for the night to law-abiding citizens. The stairs climbed the back side of the tidal barrier to a public promenade that ran along the top to allow sightseers a view of the ocean in the daytime. Galeni, who had evidently been moving at speed, was breathing deeply even as they began their climb.

  "Have any trouble getting out of the embassy?" asked Miles.

  "Not really," said Galeni. "As you know, the trick is getting back in. I think you demonstrated simplest is best. I just walked out the side entrance and took the nearest tubeway. Fortunately, the duty guard had no orders to shoot me."

  "Did you know that in advance?"

  "No."

  "Then Destang knows you left."

  "He will know, certainly."

  "Think you were followed?" Miles glanced involuntarily over his shoulder. He could see the parking lot and aircar below; Elli and the two soldiers had vanished from view, seeking their vantage no doubt.

  "Not immediately. Embassy security," Galeni's teeth flashed in the shadows, "is undermanned at present. I left my wristcomm, and bought cash tokens for the tubeway instead of using my passcard, so they have nothing quick to trace me by."

  They panted to the top; the damp air moved cool against Miles's face, smelling of river slime and sea salt, a faintly decayed estuarial tang. Miles crossed the wide promenade and peered down over the railing at the synthacrete outer face of the dike. A narrow railed ledge ran along some twenty meters below, vanishing away out of sight to the right along an outcurving bulge in the Barrier. Not part of the public area; it was reached by keyed extension ladders at intervals along the railing, all folded up and locked for the night of course. They could fuss with trying to break open and decode one of the locked ladder controls—time-consuming, and likely to light up the alarm board of some night-shift supervisor in one of the distant watchtowers—or go down the fast way.

  Miles sighed under his breath. Rappelling high over rock-hard surfaces was one of his all-time least favorite activities. He fished the drop-wire spool from its own little pocket on his Dendarii jacket, attached the gravitic grappler carefully and firmly to the railing, and doublechecked it. At a touch, handles telescoped out from the sides of the spool and released the wide ribbon-harness that always looked horribly flimsy despite its phenomenal tensile strength. Miles threaded it round himself, clipped it tight, hopped over the rail, and danced down the wall backwards, not looking down. By the time he reached the bottom his adrenaline was pumping nicely, thank y
ou.

  He sent the spool winding itself back up to Galeni, who repeated Miles's performance. Galeni offered no comment about his feelings about heights as he handed back the device, so neither did Miles. Miles touched the control that released the grappler and rewound and pocketed the spool.

  "We go right." Miles nodded. He drew his holstered stunner. "What did you bring?"

  "I could only get one stunner." Galeni pulled it from his pocket, checked its charge and setting. "And you?"

  "Two. And a few other toys. There are severe limits to what you can carry through shuttleport security."

  "Considering how crowded this place is, I think they're wise," remarked Galeni.

  Stunners in hand, they walked single file along the ledge, Miles first. Sea water swirled and gurgled just below their feet, green-brown transluscence frosted with streaks of foam within the circles of light, silky black beyond. Judging from the discoloration, this walkway was inundated at high tide.

  Miles motioned Galeni to pause, and slipped forward. Just beyond the outcurve the walkway widened to a four-meter circle and dead-ended, the railing arcing around to meet the wall. In the wall was a doorway, a sturdy watertight oval hatch.

  Standing in front of the hatch were Galen and Mark, stunners in their hands. Mark wore black tee-shirt and Dendarii gray trousers and boots, minus the pocketed jacket—his own clothes, pilfered, Miles wondered, or duplicates? His nostrils flared as he spotted his grandfather's dagger in its lizard-skin sheath at the clone's waist.

  "A stand-off," remarked Galen conversationally as Miles halted, with a glance at Miles's stunner and his own. "If we all fire at once, it leaves either me or my Miles on his feet, and the game is mine. But if by some miracle you dropped us both, we could not tell you where your oxlike cousin is. He'd die before you could find him. His death has been automated. I need not get back to him to carry it out. Quite the reverse. Your pretty bodyguard may as well join us."

  Galeni stepped around the bend. "Some stand-offs are more curious than others," he said.

  Galen's face flickered from its hard irony, lips parting in a breath of deep dismay, then tightening again even as his hand tightened on his weapon. "You were to bring the woman," he hissed.

  Miles smiled slightly. "She's around. But you said two, and we are two. Now all the interested parties are here. Now what?"

  Galen's eyes shifted, counting weapons, calculating distances, muscle, odds no doubt; Miles was doing the same.

  "The stand-off remains," said Galen. "If you're both stunned you lose; if we're both stunned you lose again. It's absurd."

  "What would you suggest?" asked Miles.

  "I propose we all lay our weapons in the center of the deck. Then we can talk without distraction."

  He's got another one concealed, thought Miles. Same as me. "An interesting proposition. Who puts his down last?"

  Galen's face was a study in unhappy calculation.

  He opened his mouth and closed it again, and shook his head slightly.

  "I too would like to talk without distraction," said Miles carefully. "I propose this schedule. I'll lay mine down first. Then M—the clone. Then yourself. Captain Galeni last."

  "What guarantee . . . ?" Galen glanced sharply at his son. The tension between them was near-sickening, a strange and silent compound of rage, despair, and anguish.

  "He'll give you his word," said Miles. He looked for confirmation to Galeni, who nodded slowly.

  Silence fell for the space of three breaths, then Galen said, "All right."

  Miles stepped forward, knelt, laid his stunner in the center of the deck, stepped back. Mark repeated his performance, staring at him the while. Galen hesitated a long, agonized moment, eyes still full of shifting calculation, then put his weapon down with the others. Galeni followed suit without hesitation. His smile was like a sword-cut. His eyes were unreadable, but for the baseline of dull pain that had lurked in them ever since his father had resurrected himself.

  "Your proposition first, then," Galen said to Miles. "If you have one."

  "Life," said Miles. "I have concealed—in a place only I know of, and if you'd stunned me you'd never have discovered it in time—a cash-credit chit for a hundred thousand Betan dollars—that's half a million Imperial marks, friends—payable to the bearer. I can give it to you, plus a head start, useful information on how to evade Barrayaran security—which is very close behind you, by the way—"

  The clone was looking extremely interested; his eyes had widened when the sum was named, and widened still further at the mention of Barrayaran security.

  "—in exchange for my cousin," Miles took a slight breath, "my brother, and your promise to—retire, and refrain from further plots against the Barrayaran Imperium. Which can only result in useless bloodshed and unnecessary pain to your few surviving relations. The war's over, Ser Galen. It's time for someone else to try something else. A different way, maybe a better way—it could scarcely be a worse way, after all."

  "The revolt," breathed Galen almost to himself, "must not die."

  "Even if everybody in it dies? 'It didn't work, so let's do it some more'? In my line of work they call that military stupidity. I don't know what they call it in civilian life."

  "My older sister once surrendered on a Barrayaran's word," Galen remarked. His face was very cold. "Admiral Vorkosigan too was full of soft and logical persuasion, promising peace."

  "My father's word was betrayed by an underling," said Miles, "who couldn't recognize when the war was over and it was time to quit. He paid for the error with his life, executed for his crime. My father gave you your revenge then. It was all he could give you; he couldn't bring those dead to life. Neither can I. I can only try to prevent more dying."

  Galen smiled sourly. "And you, David. What bribe would you offer me to betray Komarr, to lay alongside your Barrayaran master's money?"

  Galeni was regarding his fingernails, a peculiar fey smile playing around his lips as he listened. He buffed them briefly on his trouser seam, crossed his arms, blinked. "Grandchildren?"

  Galen seemed taken aback for a bare instant. "You're not even bonded!"

  "I might be, someday. Only if I live, of course."

  "And they would all be good little Imperial subjects," sneered Galen, recovering his initial balance with an effort.

  Galeni shrugged. "Seems to fit in with Vorkosigan's offer of life. I can't give you anything else you want of me."

  "You two are more alike than either of you realize, I think," Miles murmured. "So what's your proposition, Ser Galen? Why have you called us all here?"

  Galen's right hand went to his jacket, then slowed. He smiled, tilted his head as if asking permission, disarmingly. Here comes the second stunner, thought Miles. Coyly, pretending to the last minute that it's not really a weapon. Miles didn't flinch, but an involuntary calculation did flash through his mind as to just how fast he could vault the railing, and how far he could swim underwater holding his breath in a strong surf. Wearing boots. Galeni, cool as ever, didn't move either.

  Even when the weapon Ser Galen abruptly displayed turned out to be a lethal nerve disruptor.

  "Some stand-offs," said Galen, "are more equal than others." His smile tightened to a parody of itself. "Pick up those stunners," he added to the clone, who stooped and gathered them up and stuck them in his belt.

  "Now what are you going to do with that?" said Miles lightly, trying not to let his eye be hypnotized, nor his mind paralyzed, by the silver bell-muzzle. Shiny beads, bells and whistles.

  "Kill you," Galen explained. His eyes flicked to his son, and away, toward and away; he focused on Miles as if to steady his high resolve.

  So why are you still talking instead of firing? Miles didn't speak that thought aloud, lest Galen be struck by its good sense. Keep him talking, he wants to say more, is driven to say more. "Why? I don't see how that will serve Komarr at this late hour, except maybe to relieve your feelings. Mere revenge?"

  "Nothing mere about it.
Complete. My Miles will walk out of here as the only one."

  "Oh, come on!" Miles didn't have to call on his acting ability to lend outrage to his tone; it came quite naturally. "You're not still stuck on the bloody substitution plot! Barrayaran Security is all warned, they'll spot you at once now. Can't be done." He glanced at the clone. "You going to let him run you head first into a flash-disposer? You're dead meat the moment you present yourself. It's useless. And it's not necessary."

  The clone looked distinctly uneasy, but jerked up his chin and managed a proud smile. "I'm not going to be Lord Vorkosigan. I'm going to be Admiral Naismith. I did it once, so I know I can. Your Dendarii are going to give us a ride out of here—and a new power base."

  "Ngh!" Miles made a hair-tearing gesture. "D'you think I'd have walked in here if that were even remotely possible? The Dendarii are warned too. Every patrol leader out there—and you'd better believe I have patrols out there—is carrying a med scanner. First order you give, you'll be scanned. If they find leg bone where my synthetics should be, they'll blow your head off. End plot."

  "But my leg bones are synthetics," said the clone in a puzzled tone.

  Miles froze. "What? You told me your bones didn't break—"

  Galen swiveled his head round at the clone. "When did you tell him that?"

  "They don't," the clone answered Miles. "But after yours were replaced, so were mine. Otherwise the first cursory med scan I got would have given it all away."

  "But you still don't have the pattern of old breaks in your other bones . . . ?"

  "No, but that would take a much closer scan. And once the three are eliminated I should be able to avoid that. I'll study your logs—"

  "The three what?"

  "The three Dendarii who know you are Vorkosigan."

  "Your pretty bodyguard, and the other couple," Galen explained vindictively to Miles's look of horror. "I'm sorry you didn't bring her. Now we shall have to hunt her down."

  Was that a fleeting queasy look on Mark's face? Galen caught it too, and frowned faintly.