Mirror Dance

the value of the package. The nightmare that makes me despair is that the cryo-chamber somehow fell into the hands of some Jacksonian petty thief, who simply dumped the contents in order to re-sell the equipment. We would have paid a ransom … a dozen times the value of the cryo-chamber for the dead body alone. For Miles preserved and potentially revivable—whatever they asked. It drives me mad to think that Miles is rotting somewhere by mistake.”

Mark pressed his hands to his forehead, which was throbbing. His neck was so tight it felt like a piece of solid wood. “No … it’s crazy, it’s too crazy. We have both ends of the rope now, we’re only missing the middle. It has to be connectable. Norwood—Norwood was loyal to Admiral Naismith. And smart. I met him, briefly. Of course, he hadn’t planned to be killed, but he wouldn’t have sent the cryo-chamber into danger, or off at random.” Was he so sure? Norwood had expected to be able to pick up the cryo-chamber from its destination within a day at most. If it had arrived … wherever … with some sort of cryptic hold-till-called-for note attached, and then no one had called for it … “Was it re-conditioned before or after the Hub supply company purchased it?”

“Before.”

“Then there has to be some sort of medical facility hidden in the gap somewhere. Maybe a cryo-facility. Maybe … maybe Miles was shifted into somebody’s permanent storage banks.” Unidentified, and destitute? On Escobar such a charity might be possible, but on Jackson’s Whole? A most forlorn hope.

“I pray so. There are only a finite number of such facilities. It’s checkable. ImpSec is on it now. Yet only the … frozen dead require that much expertise. The mere mechanics of cleaning an emptied chamber could be done by any ship’s sickbay. Or engineering section. An unmarked grave could be harder to locate. Or maybe no grave, just disintegrated like garbage… .” The Count stared off into the trees.

Mark bet he wasn’t seeing trees. Mark bet he was seeing the same vision Mark was, a frozen little body, chest blown out—you wouldn’t even need a hand-tractor to lift it—shoved carelessly, mindlessly, into some disposal unit. Would they even wonder who the little man had been? Or would it just be a repellent thing to them? Who was them, dammit?

And how long had the Count’s mind been running on this same wheel of thought, and how the devil was it that he could still walk and talk at the same time? “How long have you known this?”

“The report came in yesterday afternoon. So you see … it becomes measurably more important that I know where you stand. In relation to Barrayar.” He started again up the trail, then took a side branch that narrowed and began to rise steeply through an area of taller trees and thinner brush.

Mark toiled on his heels. “Nobody in their right mind would stand in relation to Barrayar. They would run in relation to Barrayar. Away.”

The Count grinned over his shoulder. “You’ve been talking too much to Cordelia, I fear.”

“Yes, well, she’s about the only person here who will talk to me.” He caught up with the Count, who had slowed.

The Count grimaced painfully. “That’s been true.” He paced up the steep stony trail. “I’m sorry.” After a few more steps he added, with a flash of dark humor, “I wonder if the risks I used to take did this to my father. He is nobly avenged, if so.” More darkness than humor, Mark gauged. “But it’s more than ever necessary … to know …”

The Count stopped and sat down abruptly by the side of the trail, his back to a tree. “That’s strange,” he murmured. His face, which had been flushed and moist with the hill-climb and the morning’s growing warmth, was suddenly pale and moist.

“What?” said Mark cautiously, panting. He rested his hands on his knees and stared at the man, so oddly reduced to his eye level. The Count had a distracted, absorbed look on his face.

“I think … I had better rest a moment.”

“Suits me.” Mark sat too, on a nearby rock. The Count did not continue the conversation at once. Extreme unease tightened Mark’s stomach. What’s wrong with him? There’s something wrong with him. Oh, shit… . The sky had grown blue and fine, and a little breeze made the trees sigh, and a few more golden leaves flutter down. The cold chill up Mark’s spine had nothing to do with the weather.

“It is not,” said the Count in a distant, academic tone, “a perforated ulcer. I’ve had one of those, and this isn’t the same.” He crossed his arms over his chest. His breath was becoming shallow and rapid, not recovering its rhythm with sitting as Mark’s was.

Something very wrong. A brave man trying hard not to look scared was, Mark decided, one of the most frightening sights he’d ever seen. Brave, but not stupid: the Count did not, for example, choose to pretend that nothing was the matter and go charging up the trail to prove it.

“You don’t look well.”

“I don’t feel well.”

“What do you feel?”

“Er … chest pain, I’m afraid,” he admitted in obvious embarrassment. “More of an ache, really. A very … odd … sensation. Came up between one step and the next.”

“It couldn’t be indigestion, could it?” Like the kind that was boiling up acidly in Mark’s belly right now?

“I’m afraid not.”

“Maybe you had better call for help on your comm link,” Mark suggested diffidently. There sure as hell wasn’t anything he could do, if this was the medical emergency it looked like.

The Count laughed, a dry wheeze. It was not a comforting sound. “I left it.”

“What? You’re the frigging Prime Minister, you can’t go around without—”

“I wanted to assure an uninterrupted, private conversation. For a change. Unpunctuated by half the under-ministers in Vorbarr Sultana calling up to ask me where they left their agendas. I used to … do that for Miles. Sometimes, when it got too thick. Drove everyone crazy but eventually … they became … reconciled.” His voice went high and light on the last word. He lay back altogether, in the detritus and fallen leaves. “No … that’s no improvement… .” He extended a hand and Mark, his own heart lumping with terror, pulled him back into the sitting position.

A paralyzing toxin … heart failure … I was to get alone with you … I was to wait, in your sight, for twenty minutes while you died… . How had he made this happen? Black magic? Maybe he was programmed, and part of him was doing things the rest of him didn’t know anything about, like one of those split personalities. Did I do this? Oh, God. Oh shit.

The Count managed a pallid grin. “Don’t look so scared, boy,” he whispered. “Just go back to the house and get my guardsmen. It’s not that far. I promise I won’t move.” A hoarse chuckle.

/ wasn’t paying any attention to the paths on the way up. I was following you. Could he possibly carry … ? No. Mark was no med-tech, but he had a clear cold feeling that it would be a very bad idea to try to move this man. Even with his new girth he was heavily outweighed by the Count. “All right.” There hadn’t been that many possible wrong turns, had there? “You … you …” Don’t you dare die on me, godammit. Not now!

Mark turned, and trotted, skidded, and flat ran back down the path. Right or left? Left, down the double track. Where the hell had they turned on to it, though? They’d pushed through some brush—there was brush all along it, and half a dozen openings. There was one of those horse-jumps they’d passed. Or was it? A lot of them looked alike. I’m going to get lost in this frigging woods, and run around in circles for … twenty minutes, till he’s brain-dead and rigor-stiff, andthey’re all going to think I did it on purpose … He tripped, and bounced off a tree, and scrambled for balance and direction. He felt like a dog in a drama, running for help; when he arrived, all he’d be able to do would be bark and whine and roll on his back, and no one would understand… . He clung to a tree, gasping, and staring around. Wasn’t moss supposed to grow on the north side of trees, or was that only on Earth? These were Earth trees, mostly. On Jackson’s Whole a sort of slimy lichen grew on the south sides of everything, including buildings, and you had to scrape it out of the door grooves … ah! there was the creek. But had they walked up or down stream? Stupid, stupid, stupid. A stitch had started in his side. He turned left and ran.

Hallelujah! A tall female shape was striding down the path ahead of him. Elena, heading back to the barn. Not only was he on the right path, he’d found help. He tried to shout. It came out a croak, but it caught her attention; she looked over her shoulder, saw him, and stopped. He staggered up to her.