Mirror Dance

and heading directly for the shower. Ten years ago, Lord Miles Vorkosigan had invented the cover identity of Admiral Naismith out of his head in a desperate moment, and frantically faked his way to temporary control of the hastily re-named Dendarii Mercenaries. Barrayaran Imperial Security had discovered the cover to be useful … no. Credit where it was due. He had persuaded, schemed, demonstrated, and coerced ImpSec into finding use for this cover. Be careful what you pretend to be. You might become it.

When had Admiral Naismith stopped being a pretense? Gradually, surely, but mostly since his mercenary mentor Commodore Tung had retired. Or perhaps the wily Tung had recognized before Miles had that his services in propping Miles up to his prematurely exalted rank were no longer required. Colored vid arrays of Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet organization bloomed in Miles’s head as he showered. Personnel—equipment—administration— logistics—he knew every ship, every trooper, every shuttle and piece of ordnance, now. He knew how they fit together, what had to be done first, second, third, twentieth, how to place a precisely calculated force at any point on the tactical field. This was expertise, to he able to look at a ship like the Triumph and see with his mind’s eye right through the walls to every engineering detail, every strength and vulnerability; to look at a commando raid, or a briefing table ringed with captains and captain- owners and know what each one would do or say before they knew it themselves. I’m on top. Finally, I’m on top of it all. With this lever, I can move worlds. He switched the shower to “dry,” and turned in the blast warm air. He left the bathroom still chortling under his breath. I like it. His chortle died away in puzzlement when he unlatched the door to his uniform cupboard, and found it bare. Had his batman taken them all off for cleaning or repairs? His bewilderment grew as he looked other drawers, and found only a residue of the wildly assorted Virilian togs he wore when he stretched the chain of his identity one link further, and played spy for the Dendarii. Plus some of his shabbier underwear. Was this some sort of practical joke? If so, he’d have have the last laugh. Naked and irritated, he snapped open the locker where his space armor dwelt. Empty. That was almost shocking. Somebody’s taken it down to Engineering to re-calibrate it, or add tactics programs, or something. His batman should have returned it by now, though. What if he needed it in a hurry?

Time. His people would be gathering. Quinn had once claimed he could carry on naked, and only make those around him feel overdressed. He was momentarily tempted to test her assertion, but overcame the mordant vision, and put the shirt and trousers and sandals he’d been wearing back on. He didn’t need a uniform in order to dominate a briefing room, not any more.

On the way to the meeting, he passed Sandy Hereld in the corridor, coming off duty, and gave her a friendly nod. She wheeled and walked backward in startlement. “You’re back, sir! That was quick.” He would hardly describe his several-week journey to Imperial HQ Barrayar as quick. She must mean the trip downside. “It only took two hours.”

“What?” Her nose wrinkled. She was still walking backwards, reached the end of the corridor.

He had a briefing room full of senior officers waiting. He waved and swung down a lift tube. The briefing room was comfortingly familiar, right down to the array of faces around the darkly shining table. Captain Auson of the Triumph. Elena Bothari-Jesek, recently promoted captain of the Peregrine. Her husband Commodore Baz Jesek, Fleet engineer and in charge, in Miles’s absence, of all the repair and refit activities of the Dendarii Fleet in Escobar orbit. The couple, Barrayarans themselves, were with Quinn among the handful of Dendarii apprised of Miles’s double identity. Captain Truzillo of the Jayhawk, and a dozen more, all tested and true. His people.

Bel Thorne of the Ariel was late. That was unusual. One of Thorne’s driving characteristics was an insatiable curiosity; a new mission briefing was like a Winterfair gift to the Betan hermaphrodite. Miles turned to Elena Bothari-Jesek, to make small talk while they waited.

“Did you get a chance to visit your mother, downside on Escobar?”

“Yes, thanks.” She smiled. “It was … nice, to have a little time. We had a chance to talk about some things we’d never talked about the first time we met.”

It had been good for both of them, Miles judged. Some of the permanent strain seemed gone from Elena’s dark eyes. Better and better, bit by bit. “Good.”

He glanced up as the doors hissed open, but it was only Quinn, blowing in with the secured files in hand. She was back in full officer’s undress kit, and looking very comfortable and efficient. She handed the files to Miles, and he loaded them into the comconsole, and waited another minute. Still no Bel Thorne.

Talk died away. His officers were giving him attentive, let’s-get-on-with-it looks. He’d better not stand around much longer with his thumb in his ear. Before bringing the console display to life, he inquired, “Is there some reason Captain Thorne is late?”

They looked at him, and then at each other. There can’t be something wrong with Bel, it would have been reported to me first thing. Still, a small leaden knot materialized in the pit of his stomach. “Where is Bel Thorne?”

By eye, they elected Elena Bothari-Jesek as spokesperson. That was an extremely bad sign. “Miles,” she said hesitantly, “was Bel supposed to be back before you?”

“Back? Where did Bel go?”

She was looking at him as though he’d lost his mind. “Bel left with you, in the Ariel, three days ago.”

Quinn’s head snapped up. “That’s impossible.”

“Three days ago, we were still en route to Escobar,” Miles stated. The leaden knot was transmuting into neutron star matter. He was not dominating this room at all well. In fact, it seemed to be tilting.

“You took Green Squad with you. It was the new contract, Bel said,” Elena added.

“This is the new contract,” Miles tapped the comconsole. A hideous explanation was beginning to suggest itself to his mind, rising from the black hole in his stomach. The looks on the faces around the table were also beginning to divide into two uneven camps, appalled surmise from the minority who had been in on that mess on Earth two years ago—oh, they were right with him—total confusion from the majority, who had not been directly involved… .

“Where did I say I was going?” Miles inquired. His tone was, he thought, gentle, but several people flinched.

“Jackson’s Whole.” Elena looked him straight in the eye, with much the steady gaze of a zoologist about to dissect a specimen. A sudden lack of trust …

Jackson’s Whole. That tears it. “Bel Thorne? The Ariel? Taura? Within ten jumps of Jackson’s Whole?” Miles choked. “Dear God.”

“But if you’re you,” said Truzillo, “who was that three days ago?”

“If you’re you,” said Elena darkly. The initiate crowd were all getting that same frowning look.

“You see,” Miles explained in a hollow voice to the What-the-hell-are-they-talking-about? portion of the room, “some people have an evil twin. I am not so lucky. What I have is an idiot twin.”

“Your clone,” said Elena Bothari-Jesek.

“My brother,” he corrected automatically.

“Little Mark Pierre,” said Quinn. “Oh … shit.”

Chapter Three

His stomach seemed to turn inside out, the cabin wavered, and shadow darkened his vision. The bizarre sensations of the wormhole jump were gone almost as soon as they began, but left an unpleasant somatic reverberation, as if he were a struck gong. He took a deep, calming breath. That had been the fourth jump of the voyage. Five jumps to go, on the tortuous zigzag through the wormhole nexus from Escobar to Jackson’s Whole. The Ariel had been three days en route, almost halfway.

He glanced around Naismith’s cabin. He could not continue to hide out in here much longer, pretense of