Mirror Dance

“That’s … very interesting.”

“Is that helpful for you to know?”

Illyan sighed. “It gives me a new problem to worry about. Where is the internal leak? Now I’ll have to find out.”

“But—better to know than not.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Can I ask a favor in return?”

“Maybe.” Illyan looked extremely non-committal. “What kind of favor?”

“I want in.”

“What?”

“I want in. On ImpSec’s search for Miles. I want to start by reviewing your reports, I suppose. After that, I don’t know. But I can’t stand being kept alone in the dark any more.”

Illyan regarded him suspiciously. “No,” he said at last. “I’m not turning you loose to romp through my top- secret files, thank you. Good night, Lord Mark.”

“Wait, sir! You complained you were understaffed. You can’t turn down a volunteer.”

“What do you imagine you can do that ImpSec hasn’t?” Illyan snapped.

“The point is, sir—ImpSec hasn’t. You haven’t found Miles. I can hardly do less.”

He hadn’t put that quite as diplomatically as he should have, Mark realized, as Illyan’s face darkened with anger. “Good night, Lord Mark,” Illyan repeated through his teeth, and cut the link with a swipe of his hand.

Mark sat frozen in Miles’s station chair. The house was so quiet the loudest sound he could hear was his own blood in his ears. He should have pointed out to Illyan how clever he’d been, how quick on the uptake; Vorventa had revealed what he knew, but in no way had Mark cross-revealed that he knew Vorventa knew. Illyan’s investigation must now take the leak, whatever it was, by surprise. Isn’t that worth something? I’m not as stupid as you think I am.

You’re not as smart as I thought you were, either, Illyan. You are not … perfect. That was disturbing. He had expected ImpSec to be perfect, somehow; it had anchored his world to think so. And Miles, perfect. And the Count and Countess. All perfect, all unkillable. All made out of rubber. The only real pain, his own.

He thought of Ivan, crying in the shadows. Of the Count, dying in the woods. The Countess had kept her mask up better than any of them. She had to. She had more to hide. Miles himself, the man who had created a whole other personality just to escape into… .

The trouble, Mark decided, was that he had been trying to be Miles Vorkosigan all by himself. Even Miles didn’t do Miles that way. He had co-opted an entire supporting cast. A cast of thousands. No wonder I can never catch up with him.

Slowly, curiously, Mark opened his tunic and removed Gregor’s comm card from his inner breast pocket, and set it on the comconsole desk. He stared hard at the anonymous plastic chip, as if it bore some coded message for his eyes only. He rather fancied it did.

You knew. You knew, didn’t you, Gregor you bastard. You’ve just been waiting for me to figure it out for myself.

With spasmodic decision, Mark jammed the card into the comconsole’s read-slot.

No machines this time. A man in ordinary civilian clothing answered immediately, though without identifying himself. “Yes?”

“I’m Lord Mark Vorkosigan. I should be on your list. I want to talk to Gregor.”

“Right now, my lord?” said the man mildly. His hand danced over a keypad array to one side.

“Yes. Now. Please.”

“You are cleared.” He vanished.

The vid plate remained dark, but the audio transmitted a melodious chime. It chimed for quite a long time. Mark began to panic. What if—but then it stopped. There was a mysterious clanking sound, and Gregor’s voice said, “Yes?” in a bleary tone. No visuals.

“It’s me. Mark Vorkosigan. Lord Mark.”

“Yeah?”

“You told me to call you.”

“Yes, but it’s …” a short pause, “five in the bleeding morning, Mark!”

“Oh. Were you asleep?” he carolled frantically. He leaned forward and heat his head gently on the hard cool plastic of the desk. Timing. My timing.

“God, you sound just like Miles when you say that,” muttered the Emperor. The vid plate activated; Gregor’s image came up as he turned on a light. He was in some sort of bedroom, dim in the hack-ground, and was wearing nothing but loose black silky pajama pants. He peered at Mark, as if making sure he wasn’t talking to a ghost. But the corpus was too corpulant to be anyone but Mark. The Emperor heaved an oxygenating sigh and blinked himself to focus. “What do you need?”

How wonderfully succinct. If he answered in full, it could take him the next six hours.

“I need to be in on ImpSec’s search for Miles. Illyan won’t let me. You can override him.”

Gregor sat still for a minute, then barked a brief laugh. He swiped a hand through sleep-bent black hair. “Have you asked him?”

“Yes. Just now. He turned me down.”

“Mm, well … it’s his job to be cautious for me. So that my judgment may remain untrammeled.”

“In your untrammeled judgment, sir. Sire. Let me in!”

Gregor studied him thoughtfully, rubbing his face. “Yes …” he drawled slowly after a moment. “Let’s … see what happens.” His eyes were not bleary now.

“Can you call Illyan right now, sire?”

“What is this, pent-up demand? The dam breaks?”

I am poured out like water … where did that quote come from? It sounded like something of the Countess’s. “He’s still up. Please. Sire. And have him call me back at this console to confirm. I’ll wait.”

“Very well,” Gregor’s lips twisted up in a peculiar smile, “Lord Mark.”

“Thank you, sire. Uh … good night.”

“Good morning.” Gregor cut the comm.

Mark waited. The seconds ticked by, stretched out of all recognition. His hangover was starting, but he was still slightly drunk. The worst of both worlds. He had started to doze when the comconsole chimed at last, and he nearly spasmed out of his chair.

He slapped urgently at the controls. “Yes. Sir?”

Illyan’s saturnine face appeared over the vid plate. “Lord Mark.” He gave Mark the barest nod. “If you come to ImpSec headquarters at the beginning of normal business hours tomorrow morning, you will be permitted to review the files we discussed.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Mark sincerely.

“That’s two-and-one-half hours from now,” Illyan mentioned with, Mark thought, an understandable hint of sadism. Illyan hadn’t slept either.

“I’ll be there.”

Illyan acknowledged this with a shiver of his eyelids, and vanished.

Damnation through good works, or grace alone? Mark meditated on Gregor’s grace. He knew. He knew it before I did. Lord Mark Vorkosigan was a real person.