clone had paid full measure—reason indeed to hate. . . .
'No.'
Miles breathed concealed relief. So, their med-sensor readings wouldn't exactly match. 'It must be a short-term plot, eh?'
'I mean to be on top in six months.'
'So I'd understood. And whose space fleet will bottle all the chaos on Barrayar, behind its wormhole exit, while Komarr rises again?' Miles made his voice light, trying to appear only casually interested in this vital bit of intelligence.
'We were going to call in the Cetagandans. That's been broken off.'
His worst fears . . . 'Broken off? I'm delighted, but why, in an escapade singularly lacking in sanity, should you have come to your senses on that one?'
'We found something better, ready to hand.' The clone smirked strangely. 'An independent military force, highly experienced in space blockade duties, with no unfortunate ties to other planetary neighbors who might be tempted to muscle in on the action. And personally and fiercely loyal, it appears, to my slightest whim. The Dendarii Mercenaries.'
Miles tried to lunge for the clone's throat. The clone recoiled. Being still firmly tied to the chair, Miles and it toppled forward, mashing his face painfully into the carpet. 'No, no, no!' he gibbered, bucking, trying to kick loose. 'You moron! It'd be a slaughter—!'
The two Komarran guards tumbled through the door. 'What, what happened?'
'Nothing.' The clone, pale, ventured out from behind the comconsole desk where he'd retreated. 'He fell over. Straighten him back, will you?'
'Fell or was pushed,' muttered one of the Komarrans as the pair of them yanked the chair back upright. Miles perforce came with it. The guard stared with interest at his face. A warm wetness, rapidly cooling, trickled itchily down Miles's upper lip and three-day moustache stubble. Bloody nose? He glanced down cross-eyed, and licked at it. Calm. Calm. The clone could never get that far with the Dendarii. His future failure would be little consolation to a dead Miles, though.
'Do you, ah, need some help for this part?' the older of the two Komarrans asked the clone. 'There is a kind of science in torture, you know. To get the maximum pain for the minimum damage. I had an uncle who told me what the Barrayaran Security goons used to do. . . . Given that the fast-penta is useless.'
'He doesn't need help,' snapped Miles, at the same moment that the clone began, 'I don't want help—' then both paused to stare at each other, Miles self-possessed again, regaining his wind, the clone taken slightly aback.
But for the outward and visible marker of the damn beard, now would be the perfect time to begin screaming that Vorkosigan had overpowered and changed clothes with him, he was the clone, couldn't they tell the difference and untie me you cretins! A non-opportunity, alas.
The clone straightened, trying to regain some dignity. 'Leave us, please. When I want you, I'll call you.'
'Or maybe I will,' remarked Miles sunnily. The clone glared. The two Komarrans exited with doubtful backward glances.
'It's a stupid idea,' Miles began immediately they were alone. 'You've got to grasp, the Dendarii are an elite bunch—largely—but by planetary standards they are a small force.
The clone's smile was razor-thin. 'The Dendarii, like myself, are intended as a sacrifice. Dead mercenaries, after all, don't need to be paid.' He paused, and looked at Miles curiously. 'How far ahead do you think?'
'These days, about twenty years,' Miles admitted glumly. And a fat lot of good it did him. Consider Captain Galeni. In his mind Miles already saw him as the best viceroy Komarr was ever likely to get—his death, not the loss of a minor Imperial officer of dubious origins, but of the first link in a chain of thousands of lives striving for a less tormented future. A future when Lieutenant Miles Vorkosigan would surely be subsumed by Count Miles Vorkosigan, and need sane friends in high places. If he could bring Galeni through this mess alive, and sane . . . 'I admit,' Miles added, 'when I was your age I got through about one quarter hour at a time.'
The clone snorted. 'A century ago, was it?'
'Seems like it. I've always had the sense that I'd better live fast, if I'm to fit it all in.'
'Prescient of you. See how much you can fit into the next twenty-four hours. That's when I have my orders to ship out. At which point you will become—redundant.'
So soon. . . . No time left for experiments. No time left for anything but to be right, once.
Miles swallowed. 'The prime minister's death must be planned, or the destabilization of the Barrayaran government will not occur, even if Emperor Gregor is assassinated. So tell me,' he said carefully, 'what fate do you and Galen have planned for our father?'
The clone's head jerked back. 'Oh, no you don't. You are not my brother, and the Butcher of Komarr was never a father to me.'
'How about your mother?'
'I have none. I came out of a replicator.'
'So did I,' Miles remarked, 'before the medics were done. It never made any difference to her that I could see. Being Betan, she's quite free of anti-birth technology prejudices. It doesn't matter to her how you got here, but only what you do after you arrive. I'm afraid having a mother is a fate you can't avoid, from the moment she discovers your existence.'
The clone waved the phantom Countess Vorkosigan away. 'A null factor. She is nothing in Barrayaran politics.'
'Is that so?' Miles muttered, then controlled his tongue. No time. 'And yet you'd continue, knowing Ser Galen means to betray you to your death?'
'When I am Emperor of Barrayar—then we shall see about Ser Galen.'
'If you mean to betray him anyway, why wait?'
The clone cocked his head, eyes narrowing. 'Ha?'
'There's another alternative for you.' Miles made his voice calm, persuasive. 'Let me go now. And come with me. Back to Barrayar. You are my brother—like it or not; it's a biological fact, and it won't ever go away. Nobody gets to choose their relatives anyway, clone or no. I mean, given a choice, would you pick Ivan Vorpatril for your cousin?'
The clone choked slightly, but did not interrupt. He was beginning to look faintly fascinated.
'But there he is. And he's exactly as much your cousin as mine. Did you realize you have a name?' Miles demanded suddenly. 'That's another thing you don't get to choose on Barrayar. Second son—that's you, my twin- six-years-delayed—gets the second names of his maternal and paternal grandfathers, just as the first son gets stuck with their first names. That makes you Mark Pierre. Sorry about the Pierre. Grandfather always hated it. You are Lord Mark Pierre Vorkosigan, in your own right, on Barrayar.' He spoke fester and faster, inspired by the clone's arrested eyes.
'What have you ever dreamed of being? Any education you want, Mother will see that you get. Betans are very big on education. Have you dreamed of escape—how about Licensed Star Pilot Mark Vorkosigan? Commerce? Farming? We have a family wine business, from grape vines to export crates—does science interest you? You could go live with your Grandmother Naismith on Beta Colony, study at the best research academies. You have an aunt and uncle there too, do you realize? Two cousins and a second cousin. If backward benighted Barrayar doesn't appeal to you, there's a whole 'nother life waiting on Beta Colony, to which Barrayar and all its troubles is scarcely a wrinkle on the event horizon. Your cloned origin wouldn't be novel enough to be worth mentioning, there. Any life you want. The galaxy at your fingertips. Choice—freedom—ask, and it's yours!' He had to stop for breath.
The clone's face was white. 'You lie,' he hissed. 'Barrayaran Security would never let me live.'
Not, alas, a fear without force. 'But imagine for one minute it is, it could be real. It could be yours. My word as Vorkosigan. My protection as Lord Vorkosigan, against all comers up to and including Imperial Security.' Miles gulped a little as he made this promise. 'Galen offers you death on a silver platter. I can get you life. I can get it for
