Mirror Dance

guess what is the first thing I shall have you two do to each other?”

Grunt could. Spot-on, though not with the whispered refinements Ryoval added.

Lord Mark raged, wept with terror and dismay. Not a vibration rippled Grunt’s slack-mouthed surface, nor marred the flat glisten of his eyes with any inner purpose. Wait, begged the Other.

The Baron walked to a counter or bar, made of some zebra-grained, polished wood, and unwrapped an array of glittering tools, which no one could quite see, though Howl stretched his neck. Meditatively, Ryoval looked his kit over.

You have to stay out of my way. And not sabotage me, said the Other. I know Ryoval gives you what you hunger for—but it’s a trick.

Ryoval doesn’t feed you, said Gorge.

Ryoval is my food, whispered the Other.

You’ll only get one chance, said Howl nervously. And then they’ll come after me.

I only need one chance.

Ryoval turned back. A surgical hand-tractor gleamed in his grip. Grunt, frightened, gave way to the Other.

“I believe,” said Ryoval, “that I will pull out one of your eyes, next. Just one. That should have some interesting psychological focusing effects, when I threaten the remaining one.”

Smoothly, Howl gave way. Last of all, reluctantly, Gorge gave way, as Ryoval walked toward them.

Killer’s first attempt to struggle to his feet failed, and he fell back. Damn you, Gorge. He tried again, shifted his weight forward, heaved up, stepped once, half-unbalanced without the use of his arms to save himself. Ryoval watched, highly amused, unalarmed by the waddling little monster he doubtless thought he had created.

Trying to work around Gorge’s new belly was something like being the Blind Zen Archer. But his alignment was absolute.

His first kick took Ryoval in the crotch. This folded him neatly over, and put his upper body within practical range. He flowed instantly into the second kick, striking Ryoval squarely in the throat. He could feel cartilage and tissue crunch all the way back to Ryoval’s spine. Since he was not wearing steel-capped boots this time, it also broke several of his toes, smashed up and down at right angles. He felt no pain. That was Howl’s job.

He fell over. Getting up again wasn’t easy, with his hands still shackled behind him. Wallowing around on the floor trying to get his legs under himself, he saw with disappointment that Ryoval wasn’t dead yet. The man writhed and gurgled and clutched his throat, on the carpet next to him. But the room’s computer control did not recognize the Baron’s voice commands now. They had a little time yet.

He rolled near to Ryoval’s ear. “I am too a Vorkosigan. The one who was trained as a deep-penetration mole and assassin. It really pisses me off when people underestimate me, y’know?”

He managed to get back on his feet, and studied the problem, which was, Ryoval was still alive. He sighed, swallowed, stepped forward, and pounded the man with repeated blows of his feet till Ryoval stopped vomiting blood, convulsing, and breathing. It was a nauseating process, but in all, he was very relieved that there seemed no part of himself who actually enjoyed it. Even Killer had to muster a determined professionalism, to see it through to the end.

He considered the Other, whom he now recognized as Killer. Galen made you, mostly, didn’t he?

Yes. But he didn’t make me out of nothing.

You did very well. Hiding out. Stalking. I’d wondered if any of us possessed any sense of timing at all. I’m glad at least one of us does.

It was what the Count our Father said, Killer admitted, pleased and embarrassed to be praised. That people would give themselves to you, if you waited them out, and didn’t rush to give yourself to them. And I did. And Ryoval did. He added shyly, The Count’s a killer too, you know. Like me.

Hm.

He pulled his wrists against the shackles, and limped over to the zebra-wood counter to study Ryoval’s kit. The selection included a laser-drill, as well as a sickening assortment of knives, scalpels, tongs, and probes. The drill was a short-focal-range surgical type suitable for cutting bone, a dubious weapon, but a most suitable tool.

He wobbled around and tried to pick it up, behind his back. He almost wept when he dropped it. He was going to have to get down on the floor again. Awkwardly, he did so, and lumbered around till he managed to grub up the drill. It took many minutes of fiddling, but at last he got it turned around and aimed in such a way as to cut through his shackles without either slicing his hand off, or burning himself in the butt. Released, he flung his arms around his swollen torso, and rocked himself like someone rocking a weary child. His foot was starting to throb. The assorted mass vectors had apparently also combined to wrench his back, when he’d kicked Ryoval in the throat.

He stared, aside, at his victim/tormentor/prey. Clone-consumer. He felt apologetic toward the body he had pummeled underfoot. It wasn’t your fault. You died, what, ten years ago? It was the one up top, inside the skull, who had been his enemy.

An illogical fear possessed him that Ryoval’s guards would break in, and save their master even in death. He crawled over, much easier now that he had his hands free, took the laser-drill, and made certain that no one would be transplanting that brain again, ever. No one, no way.

He sagged back into the low chair, and sat in utter exhaustion, waiting to die. Ryoval’s men surely had orders to avenge their fallen lord.

No one came.

… Right. The boss had locked himself in his quarters with a prisoner and a surgical kit, and told his goons not to bother him. How long before one worked up the courage to interrupt his little hobby? Could be … quite a long time.

The weight of hope returning was an almost intolerable burden, like walking on a broken bone. I don’t want to move. He was very angry with ImpSec for abandoning him here, but thought he might forgive them everything if only they would charge in now, and waft him away without any further exertion or effort on his part. Haven’t I earned a break? The room grew very silent.

That was over-kill, he thought, staring down at Ryoval’s body. A trifle unbalanced, that. And you’ve made a mess on the carpet.

I don’t know what to do next.

Who was speaking? Killer? Gorge, Grunt? Howl? All of them?