Mirror Dance

route to both.

The operative shuttle hatch was the first one he tried. He paused a moment in shadow and silence at the curve of the corridor, before he was spotted, to take in the scene.

The loading bay was crowded with a dozen men and women in grey camouflage flight suits, along with piles of equipment and supplies. Hand and heavy weapons were stacked in symmetrical arrays. The mercenaries sat or stood, talking noisily, loud and crude, punctuated with barks of laughter. They were all so big, generating too much energy, knocking into each other in half-horseplay, as if seeking an excuse to shout louder. They bore knives and other personal weapons on belts or in holsters or on bandoliers, an ostentatious display. Their faces were a blur, animal-like. He swallowed, straightened, and stepped among them.

The effect was instantaneous. “Heads up!” someone shouted, and without further orders they arranged themselves at rigid attention in two neat, dead silent rows, each with his or her bundle of equipment at their feet. It was almost more frightening than the previous chaos.

With a thin smile, he walked forward, and pretended to look at each one. A last heavy duffle arced out of the shuttle hatch to land with a thump on the deck, and the thirteenth commando squeezed through, stood up, and saluted him.

He stood paralyzed with panic. Whatinhell was it? He stared at a flashing belt buckle, then tilted his head back, straining his neck. The freaking thing was eight feet tall. The enormous body radiated power that he could feel almost like a wave of heat, and the face—the face was a nightmare. Tawny yellow eyes, like a wolf’s, a distorted, outslung mouth with fangs, dammit, long white canines locked over the edges of the carmine lips. The huge hands had claws, thick, powerful, razor-edged—enamelled with carmine polish… . What? His gaze traveled back up to the monster’s face. The eyes were outlined with shadow and gold tint, echoed by a little gold spangle glued decoratively to one high cheekbone. The mahogany- colored hair was drawn back in an elaborate braid. The belt was cinched in tightly, emphasizing a figure of sorts despite the loose-fitting multi-grey flight suit. The thing was female—?

“Sergeant Taura and the Green Squad, reporting as ordered, sir!” The baritone voice reverberated in the bay.

“Thank you—” It came out a cracked whisper, and he coughed to unlock his throat. “Thank you, that will be all, get your orders from Captain Thorne, you may all stand down.” They all strained to hear him, compelling him to repeat, “Dismissed!”

They broke up in disorder, or some order known only to themselves, for the bay was cleared of equipment with astonishing speed.

The monster sergeant lingered, looming over him. He locked his knees, to keep himself from sprinting from it—her… .

She lowered her voice. “Thanks for picking the Green Squad, Miles. I take it you’ve got us a real plum.”

More first names? “Captain Thorne will brief you en route. It’s … a challenging mission.” And this would be the sergeant in charge of it?

“Captain Quinn have the details, as usual?” She cocked a furry eyebrow at him.

“Captain Quinn … will not be coming on this mission.”

He swore her gold eyes widened, the pupil’s dilating. Her lips drew back baring her fangs further in what took him a terrifying moment to realize was a smile. In a weird way, it reminded him of the grin with which Thorne had greeted that same news.

She glanced up; the bay had emptied of other personnel. “Aah?” Her voice rumbled, like a purr. “Well, I’ll be your bodyguard any time, lover. Just give me the sign.”

What sign, what the hell—

She bent, her lips rippling, carmine clawed hand grasping his shoulder—he had a flashing vision of her tearing off his head, peeling, and eating him—then her mouth closed over his. His breath stopped, and his vision darkened, and he almost passed out before she straightened and gave him a puzzled, hurt look. “Miles, what’s the matter?”

That had been a kiss. Freaking gods. “Nothing,” he gasped. “I’ve … been ill. I probably shouldn’t have gotten up, but I had to inspect.”

She was looking very alarmed. “I’ll say you shouldn’t have gotten up—you’re shaking all over! You can barely stand up. Here, I’ll carry you to sickbay. Crazy man!”

“No! I’m all right. That is, I’ve been treated. I’m just supposed to rest, and recover for a while, is all.”

“Well, you go straight back to bed, then!”

“Yes.”

He wheeled. She swatted him on the butt. He bit his tongue. She said, “At least you’ve been eating better. Take care of yourself, huh?”

He waved over his shoulder, and fled without looking back. Had that been military cameraderie? From a sergeant to an admiral? He didn’t think so. That had been intimacy. Naismith, you bug-fuck crazy bastard, what have you been doing in your spare time? I didn’t think you had any spare time. You’ve got to be a freaking suicidal maniac, if you’ve been screwing that—

He locked his cabin door behind him, and stood against it, trembling, laughing in hysterical disbelief. Dammit, he’d studied everything about Naismith, everything. This couldn’t be happening. With friends like this, who need enemies?

He undressed and lay tensely upon his bed, contemplating Naismith/Vorkosigan’s complicated life, and wondering what other booby-traps it held for him. At last a faint change in the susurrations and creaks of the ship around him, a brief tug of shifting grav fields, made him realize the Ariel was breaking free of Escobar orbit. He had actually succeeded in stealing a fully armed and equipped military fast cruiser, and no one even knew it. They were on their way to Jackson’s Whole. To his destiny. His destiny, not Naismith’s. His thoughts spiraled toward sleep at last.

But if you claim your destiny, his demon voice whispered at the last, before the night’s oblivion, why can’t you claim your name?

Chapter Two

They exited the flex tube from the passenger ship in step, arm in arm, Quinn with her duffle swung over her shoulder, Miles with his flight bag gripped in his free hand. In the orbital transfer station’s disembarkation lounge, people’s heads turned. Miles stole a smug sideways glance at his female companion as they strolled on past the men’s half-averted, envious stares. My Quinn.

Quinn was looking particularly tough this morning—was it morning? he’d have to check Dendarii fleet time—having half-returned to her normal persona. She’d managed to make her pocketed grey uniform trousers masquerade as a fashion statement by tucking them into red suede boots (the steel caps under the pointed toes eluded notice) and topping them with a skimpy scarlet tank top. Her white skin glowed in contrast to the tank top and to her short dark curls. The surface colors distracted the eye from her athleticism, not apparent unless you knew just how much that bloody duffle weighed.

Liquid brown eyes informed her face with wit. But it was the perfect, sculptured curves and planes of the face itself that stopped men’s voices in midsentence. An obviously expensive face, the work of a surgeon-artist of extraordinary genius. The casual observer might guess her face had been paid for by the little ugly man whose arm she linked with her own, and judge the woman, too, to be a purchase. The casual observer never guessed the price she’d really paid: her old face, burned away in combat off Tau Verde. Very nearly the first battle loss in Admiral Naismith’s service—ten years ago, now? God. The casual observer was a twit, Miles decided.

The latest representative of the species was a wealthy executive who reminded Miles of a blond, civilian version of his cousin Ivan, and who had spent much of the two-week journey from Sergyar to Escobar under such