Miles Errant

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  You only want it 'cause you can't have it. Perverse. Go on, he told himself sternly. He made his way from support to support to the outer door of the storage chamber. It too was locked from the outside, he found out the hard way when it sealed behind him. Go on.

  The storage room had opened onto another short corridor, centered around an ordinary lift-tube foyer. This level pretended to be the end of the line, Level B-2; openings marked B-1, G, 1, 2, and so on ascended out of sight. He went for the zero-point, G. G for Ground? Yes. He exited into a darkened lobby.

  It was a neat little place, elegantly furnished but in the manner of a business rather than a home, with potted plants and a reception or security desk. No one around. No signs. But there were windows at last, and transparent doors. They reflected a dim replica of the interior; it was night outside. He leaned on the comconsole desk. Jackpot. Here was not only a place to sit down, but data in abundance . . . hell. It was palm-locked, and would not even turn on for him. There were ways to overcome palm-locks—how did he . . . ?—the fragmentary visions exploded like a school of minnows, eluding his grasp. He nearly cried with the uselessness of it, sitting in the station chair with his too-heavy head laid in his arms, across the blank unyielding vid plate.

  He shivered. God, I hate cold. He wobbled over to the glass door. It was snowing outside, tiny scintillant dots whipping by slantwise through the white arc of a floodlight. They would be hard, and hiss and sting on bare skin. A weird vision of a dozen naked men standing shivering in a midnight blizzard flitted across his mind's eye, but he could attach no names to the scene, only a sensation of deep disaster. Was that how he had died, freezing in the wind and snow? Recently, nearby?

  I was dead. The realization came to him for the first time, a burst of shock radiating outward from his belly. He traced the aching scars on his torso through the thin fabric of his gown. And I'm not feeling too good now, either. He giggled, an off-balance noise disturbing even to his own ears. He stifled his mouth with his fist. He must not have had time to be afraid, before, because the retroactive wash of terror knocked him to his knees. Then to his hands and knees. The shivering cold was making his hands shake uncontrollably. He began to crawl.

  He must have triggered some sensor, because the transparent door hissed open. Oh, no, he wasn't going to make that error again, and get exiled to the outer darkness. He began to crawl away. His vision blurred, and he got turned around somehow; icy concrete instead of smooth tile beneath his hand warned him of his mistake. Something seemed to seize his head, half-shock, half-blow, with a nasty buzzing sound. Violently rebuffed, he smelled singed hair. Fluorescent patterns spun on his retinas. He tried to withdraw, but collapsed across the door-groove in a puddle of ice water and some slimy orange glop like gritty mold. No, damn it no, I don't want to freeze again . . . ! He curled up in desperate revulsion.

  Voices; shouts of alarm. Footsteps, babble, warm, oh blessed warm hands pulled him away from the deadly portal. A couple of women's voices, and one man's: "How did he get up here?" "—shouldn't have gotten out." "Call Rowan. Wake her up—" "He looks terrible." "No," a hand held his face to the light by his hair, "that's the way he looks anyway. You can't tell."

  The face belonging to the hand loomed over his, harsh and worried. It was Rowan's assistant, the young man who'd sedated him. He was a lean fellow with Eurasian features, with a definite bridge to his nose. His blue jacket said R. Durona, insanely enough. But it wasn't Dr. R. So call him . . . Brother Durona. The young man was saying, "—dangerous. It's incredible that he penetrated our security in that condition!"

  "Na' sec'rty." Words! His mouth was making words! "Fire saf'ty." He added reflectively, "Dolt."

  The young man's face jerked back in bewildered offense. "Are you talking to me, Short Circuit?"

  "He's talking!" His Dr. Durona's face circled overhead, her voice thrilled. He recognized her even with her fine hair loose, falling all around her face in a dark cloud. Rowan, my love. "Raven, what did he say?"

  The youth's dark brows wrinkled. "I'd swear he just said 'fire safety.' " Gibberish, I guess."

  Rowan smiled wildly. "Raven, all the secured doors open outward without code-locks. For escape in case of fire or chemical accident or—do you realize the level of understanding that reveals?"

  "No," said Raven coldly.

  That dolt must have stung, considering its source . . . he grinned darkly up at the hovering faces and the lobby ceiling wavering beyond them.

  An older, alto voice came in from the left, restoring order, disbanding the crowd. "If you don't have a function here, get back to bed." A Dr. Durona whose short-cut hair was almost pure white, the owner of the alto voice, shuffled into his field of view and stared thoughtfully down at him. "Dear heart, Rowan, he almost escaped, disabled as he is!"

  "Hardly an escape," said Brother Raven. "Even if he'd somehow gotten through the force screen, he'd have frozen to death in twenty minutes out there tonight, dressed like that."

  "How did he get out?"

  An upset Dr. Durona confessed, "He must have gone past the monitor station while I was in the lav. I'm sorry!"

  "Suppose he had made it this far in the daytime?" speculated the alto. "Suppose he had been seen? It could have been disastrous."

  "I'll palm-lock the door to the private wing after this," the flustered Dr. Durona promised.

  "I'm not sure that will be enough, considering this remarkable performance. Yesterday he couldn't even walk. Still, this fills me with hope as much as alarm. I think we have something here. We had better set a closer guard."

  "Who can be spared?" asked Rowan.

  Several Dr. Duronas, clad variously in robes and nightgowns, looked at the young man.

  "Aw, no," Raven protested.

  "Rowan may watch him in the daytime, and continue her work. You will take the night shift," the white-haired woman instructed firmly.

  "Yes, ma'am," the youth sighed.

  She gestured imperiously. "Take him back to his room now. You had better check him for damages, Rowan."

  "I'll get a float pallet," said Rowan.

  "You don't need a float pallet for him," scoffed Raven. He knelt, gathered the wanderer up in his arms, and grunted to his feet. Showing off his strength? Well . . . no. "He weighs about as much as a wet coat. Come on, Short Circuit, back to bed with you."

  Muzzily indignant, he suffered himself to be carried off. Rowan hovered apprehensively at his side across the lobby, down the tube, through the storage chamber, and back into the peculiar building-under-a-building. At least, in response to his continued shivering, she set the bed's heat-bubble zone to a higher temperature this time.

  Rowan examined him, with particular attention to his aching scars. "He hasn't managed to rip anything apart inside. But he seems physiologically upset. It may be from the pain."

  "Do you want me to give him another two cc's of sedative?" asked Raven.

  "No. Just keep the room dim and quiet. He's exhausted himself. Once he warms up I think he'll sleep on his own." She touched his cheek, then his lips, tenderly. "That was the second time today that he spoke, do you know?"

  She wanted him to speak to her. But he was too tired now. And too rattled. There had been a tension among those people tonight, all those Dr. Duronas, that was more than medical fear for a patient's safety. They were very worried about something. Something to do with him? He might be a blank to himself, but they knew more and they weren't telling him.

  Rowan eventually pulled her night robe more closely about herself, and left. Raven arranged two chairs, one for a seat and one for his feet, settled down, and began reading from a hand-viewer. Studying, for he occasionally re-ran screens or made notes. Learning to be a doctor, no doubt.

  He lay back, drained beyond measure. His excursion tonight had nearly killed him, and what had he learned for all his pains? Not much, except this: I am come to a very strange place.

  And I am a prisoner here.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

 
Mark, Bothari-Jesek, and the Countess were in the library of Vorkosigan House going over ship specs the day before the scheduled departure.

  "Do you think I would have time to stop and see my clones on Komarr?" Mark asked the Countess a little wistfully. "Would Illyan let me?"

  ImpSec had settled on a Komarran private boarding school as the clones' initial depository, after consultation with the Countess, who had in turn kept Mark informed. ImpSec liked it because it meant they had only one location to guard. The clones liked it because they were together with their friends, the only familiarity in their sudden new situation. The teachers liked it because the clones could all be treated as one remedial class, and brought up to academic speed together. At the same time the young refugees had a chance to mingle with youths from normal, if mostly upper-class, families, and begin to get a handle on socialization. Later, when it was safer, the Countess was pushing for placement in foster-families despite the clones' awkward age and size. How will they learn to form families themselves, later, if they have no models? she'd argued with Illyan. Mark had listened in on that conversation with the most intense imaginable fascination, and kept his mouth tightly shut.

  "Certainly, if you wish," the Countess now said to Mark. "Illyan will kick, but that's pure reflex. Except . . . I can think of one proper complaint he might have, because of your destination. If you encounter House Bharaputra again, God forbid, it might be better if you don't know everything about ImpSec's arrangements. Stopping on your way back might be more prudent." The Countess looked as if she didn't care for the flavor of her own words, but years of living with security concerns made her reasoning automatic.

  If I encounter Vasa Luigi again, the clones will be the least of my worries, Mark thought wryly. What did he want of a personal visit anyway? Was he still trying to pass himself off as a hero? A hero should be more self-contained and austere. Not so desperate for praise as to pursue his—victims—begging for it. Surely he'd played the fool enough. "No," he sighed at last. "If any of them ever want to talk to me, they can find me, I guess." No heroine was going to kiss him anyway.

  The Countess raised her brows at his tone, but shrugged agreement.

  Led by Bothari-Jesek, they turned to more practical matters involving fuel costs and life-support system repairs. Bothari-Jesek and the Countess—who, Mark was reminded, had been a ship captain herself once—were deep into a startlingly technical discussion involving Necklin rod adjustments, when the comconsole image split, and Simon Illyan's face appeared.

  "Hello, Elena." He nodded to her, in the comconsole's station chair. "I wish to speak with Cordelia, please."

  Bothari-Jesek smiled, nodded, muted the outgoing audio, and slid aside. She beckoned urgently to the Countess, whispering, "Do we have trouble?"

  "He's going to block us," worried Mark, agitated, as the Countess settled into the comconsole's station chair. "He's going to nail me to the floor, I know he is."

  "Hush," reproved the Countess, smiling slightly. "Both of you sit over there and resist the temptation to talk. Simon is my meat." She re-opened her audio transmission mode. "Yes, Simon, what can I do for you?"

  "Milady," Illyan gave her a short nod, "in a word, you can desist. This scheme you are putting forward is unacceptable."

  "To whom, Simon? Not to me. Who else gets a vote?"

  "Security," Illyan growled.

  "You are Security. I'll thank you to take responsibility for your own emotional responses, and not try to shift them onto some vague abstraction. Or get off the line and let me talk to Captain Security, then."

  "All right. It's unacceptable to me."

  "In a word—tough."

  "I request you to desist."

  "I refuse. If you want to stop me, ultimately, you'll have to generate an order for Mark's and my arrest."

  "I will speak to the Count," said Illyan stiffly, with the air of a man driven to a last resort.

  "He's much too ill. And I've spoken with him already."

  Illyan swallowed his bluff without gagging, much. "I don't know what you think this unauthorized venture can do, besides muddy the waters, maybe risk lives, and cost you a small fortune."

  "Well, that's just the point, Simon. I don't know what Mark will be able to do. And neither do you. The trouble with ImpSec is that you've had no competition lately. You take your monopoly for granted. A bit of hustle will be good for you."

  Illyan sat with his teeth clenched for a short time. "You put House Vorkosigan at triple risk, with this," he said at last. "You are endangering your last possible back-up."

  "I am aware. And I choose the risk."

  "Do you have that right?"

  "I have more right than you."

  "The government is in the biggest uproar behind closed doors that I've seen in years," said Illyan. "The Centrist Coalition is scrambling to find a man to replace Aral. And so are three other parties."

  "Excellent. I hope one of them may succeed before Aral gets back on his feet, or I'll never get him to retire."

  "Is that what you see in this?" Illyan demanded. "A chance to end your husband's career? Is this loyal, milady?"

  "I see a chance to get him out of Vorbarr Sultana alive," she said icily, "an end I have often despaired of, over the years. You pick your loyalties, I'll pick mine."

  "Who is capable of succeeding him?" asked Illyan plaintively.

  "A number of men. Racozy, Vorhalas, or Sendorf, to name three. If not, there was something terribly wrong with Aral's leadership. One mark of a great man is the legacy of men he leaves behind him, to whom he's passed on his skills. If you think Aral so small as to have stifled all possible others around him, spreading smallness like a plague, then perhaps Barrayar is better off without him."

  "You know I don't think that!"

  "Good. Then your argument annihilates itself."

  "You tie me in knots." Illyan rubbed his neck. "Milady," he said at last, "I didn't want to have to say this to you. But have you considered the possible dangers of letting Lord Mark get to Lord Miles before anyone else?"

  She leaned back in her chair, smiling, her fingers lightly drumming. "No, Simon. What dangers are you thinking of?"

  "The temptation to promote himself," Illyan bit out.

  "Murder Miles. Say what you damn mean." Her eyes glinted dangerously. "So you'll just have to make sure your people get to Miles first. Won't you. I've no objection."

  "Damn it, Cordelia," he cried, harried, "you realize, that if they get into trouble, the first thing they're going to do is cry to ImpSec for rescue!"

  The Countess grinned. "You live to serve, I believe you fellows say in your oath. Don't you?"

  "We'll see," snapped Illyan, and cut the comm.

  "What's he going to do?" asked Mark anxiously.

  "At a guess, go over my head. Since I've already cut him out with Aral, that leaves only one choice. I don't think I'll bother getting up. I expect I'll get another call here shortly."

  Distracted, Mark and Bothari-Jesek attempted to carry on with the ship specs. Mark jumped when the comm chimed again.

  An anonymous young man appeared, nodded to the Countess, stated, "Lady Vorkosigan. Emperor Gregor," and vanished. Gregor's face appeared in his place, looking bemused.

  "Good morning, Lady Cordelia. You really ought not to stir up poor Simon that way, you know."

  "He deserved it," she said equably. "I admit, he has far too much on his mind at the moment. Suppressed panic turns him into a prick every time; it's what he does instead of running in circles screaming. A way of coping, I suppose."

  "While others of us cope by becoming over-analytical," Gregor murmured. The Countess's lip twitched, and Mark suddenly thought he knew who might shave the barber.

  "His security concerns are legitimate," Gregor continued. "Is this Jackson's Whole venture wise?"

  "A question that can only be answered by empirical testing. So to speak. I grant you, Simon argues sincerely. But—how do you consider Barrayar's concerns will best be serve
d, Sire? That's the question you must answer."

  "I'm divided in mind."

  "Are you divided in heart?" Her question was a challenge. She opened her hands, half-placation, half-pleading. "One way or another, you're going to be dealing with Lord Mark Vorkosigan for a long time to come. This excursion, if it does nothing else, will test the validity of all doubts. If they are not tested, they will always remain with you, an unanswered itch. And that's not fair to Mark."

  "How very scientific," he breathed. They regarded each other with equal dryness.

  "I thought it might appeal to you."

  "Is Lord Mark with you?"

  "Yes." The Countess gestured him to her side.

  Mark entered the range of the vid pick-up. "Sire."

  "So, Lord Mark." Gregor studied him gravely. "It seems your mother wants me to give you enough rope to hang yourself."

  Mark swallowed. "Yes, Sire."

  "Or save yourself . . ." Gregor nodded. "So be it. Good luck and good hunting."

  "Thank you, Sire."

  Gregor smiled and cut the comm.

  They did not hear from Illyan again.

  In the afternoon, the Countess took Mark with her to the Imperial Military Hospital on her daily visit to her husband. Mark had made that journey in her company twice before, since the Count's collapse. He didn't much care for it. For one thing, the place smelled entirely too much like the clinics that had helped make a torment of his Jacksonian youth; he found himself remembering details of early surgeries and treatments that he thought he'd altogether forgotten. For another, the Count himself still terrified Mark. Even laid low, his personality was as powerful as his life was precarious, and Mark wasn't sure which teetering aspect scared him more.

  His feet slowed to a halt in the hospital corridor outside the Prime Minister's guarded room, and he stood in indecisive misery. The Countess glanced back, and stopped. "Yes?"

  "I . . . really don't want to go in there."

  She frowned thoughtfully. "I won't force you. But I'll predict you a prediction."