Lois Bujold - Mirror Dance

The helmet appeared new, but not that new. He doubted Naismith supplied himself with used military surplus for his personal use, regardless of what economies he practiced in the fleet at large. “Why not?” he shrugged. “I have before.”

“These things,” Thorne lifted his own, “can be pretty overwhelming at first. It’s not a data flow, it’s a damn data flood. You have to learn to ignore everything you don’t need, otherwise it can be almost better to switch the thing off. You, now …” Thorne hesitated, “have that same uncanny ability as old Tung did, of appearing to ignore everything as it goes by, and yet being able to remember and yank it out instantly if it’s needed. Of somehow always being on the right channel at the right time. It’s like your mind works on two levels. Your command-response time is incredibly fast, when your adrenalin is up. It’s kind of addictive. People who work with you a lot come to expect—and rely—on it.” Thorne stopped, waited.

What was it expecting him to say? He shrugged again. “I do my best.”

“If you’re still feeling ill, you know, you can delegate this whole raid to me.”

“Do I look ill?”

“You’re not yourself. You don’t want to make the whole squad sick.” Thorne seemed tense, almost urgent.

“I’m fine, now, Bel. Back off!”

“Yes, sir,” Thorne sighed.

“Is everything ready out there?”

“The shuttle is fueled and armed. Green Squad is kitted up, and is doing the final loading right now. We have it timed so we come into parking orbit just at midnight, downside at Bharaputra’s main medical facility. We drop instantly, no waiting around for people to start asking questions. Hit and go. The whole operation should be over in an hour, if things run to plan.”

“Good.” His heart was beating faster. He disguised a deep breath in a strung-out sigh. “Let’s go.”

“Let’s … do our helmet communication checks first, huh?” said Thorne.

That was a good idea, here in the quiet cabin, rather than in the noise and excitement and tension of the drop shuttle. “All right,” he said, and added slyly, “Take your time.”

There were over a hundred channels in use in the command headset, even for this limited raid. In addition to direct voice contact with the Ariel, Thorne, and every trooper, there were battle computers on the ship, in the shuttle, and in the helmet itself. There were telemetry readouts of every sort, weapon power checks, logistics updates. All the troopers’ helmets had vid pick-ups so he could see what they were seeing in infra-red, visual, and UV bands; full sound; their medical readouts; holovid map displays. The holomap of the clone-creche had been specially programmed in, and the plan of attack and several contingencies pre-loaded. There were channels to be dedicated, on the fly, to eavesdropping upon enemy telemetry. Thorne already had Bharaputra’s security guards’ comm links locked in. They could even pick up commercial entertainment broadcasts from the planet they were approaching. Tinny music filled the air momentarily as he switched past those channels.

They finished, and he found himself and Thorne staring at each other in an awkward silence. Thorne was hollow-faced, apprehensive, as if struggling with some suppressed emotion. Guilt? Strange perception, surely not. Thorne couldn’t be on to him, or it would have called a halt to this whole operation.

“Pre-combat nerves, Bel?” he said lightly. “I thought you loved your work.”

Thorne came out of its lip-sucking abstraction with a start. “Oh, I do.” It took a breath. “Let’s do it.”

“Go!” he agreed, and led the way at last out of his isolated cabin-cave into the light of the corridor and the peopled reality his actions— his actions—had created.

The shuttle-hatch corridor resembled his first view of it, reversed; the hulking Dendarii commandos were filing out, not spilling in. They seemed quieter this time, not as much clowning and joking. More businesslike. They had names, now, too, all filed in his command headset, which would keep them straight for him. All wore some variety of half-armor and helmet, with an array of heavier equipment in addition to such hand-weapons as he bore.

He found himself looking at the monster sergeant with new eyes, now that he knew her history. The log had said she was only nineteen years old, though she looked older; she’d been only sixteen, four years ago when Naismith had stolen her away from House Ryoval. He squinted, trying to see her as a girl. He had been taken away at age fourteen, eight years ago. Their mutual time as genetic products and prisoners of House Bharaputra must have overlapped, though he had never met her. The genetic engineering research labs were in a different town from the main surgical facility. House Bharaputra was a vast organization, in its strange Jacksonian way almost a little government. Except Jackson’s Whole didn’t have governments.

Eight years … No one you knew then is still alive. You know that, don’t you?

If I can’t do what I want, I’ll at least do what I can.

He stepped up to her. “Sergeant Taura—” she turned, and his brows climbed in startlement. “ What is that around your neck?” Actually, he could see what it was, a large fluffy pink bow. He supposed his real question was, why was it around her neck?

She—smiled, he guessed that repellent grimace was, at him, and fluffed it out a bit more with a huge clawed hand. Her claw-polish was bright pink, tonight. “D’you think it’ll work? I wanted something to not scare the kids.”

He looked up at eight feet of half-armor, camouflage cloth, boots, bandoliers, muscle and fang. Somehow, I don’t think it’ll be enough, Sergeant. “It’s … certainly worth a try,” he choked. So, she was conscious of her extraordinary appearance… . Fool! How could she not be? Are you not conscious of yours? He was almost sorry now he had not ventured out of his cabin earlier in the voyage, and made her acquaintance. My home-town girl.

“What does it feel like, to be going back?” he asked suddenly; a nod in no particular direction indicated the House Bharaputra drop-zone, coming up.

“Strange,” she admitted, her thick brows drawing down.

“Do you know this landing-site? Ever been there before?”

“Not that medical complex. I hardly ever left the genetics facility, except for a couple of years that I lived with hired fosterers, which was in the same town.” Her head turned, her voice dropped an octave, and she barked an order about loading equipment at one of her men, who gave a half-wave and hustled to obey. She turned back to him and her voice re-softened to conscious, careful lightness. In no other way did she display any inappropriate intimacy while on duty; it seemed she and Naismith were discreet lovers, if lovers they were. The discreetness relieved him. She added, “I didn’t get out much.”

His own voice lowered. “Do you hate them?” As 1 do? A different kind of intimate question.

Her outslung lips twisted in thought. “I suppose … I was terribly manipulated by them when I was growing up, but it didn’t seem like abuse to me at the time. There were a lot of uncomfortable tests, but, it was all science … there wasn’t any intent to hurt in it. It didn’t really hurt till they sold me to Ryoval’s, after the super-soldier project was cancelled. What Ryoval’s wanted to do to me was grotesque, but that was just the nature of Ryoval’s. It was Bharaputra … Bharaputra that didn’t care. That threw me away. That hurt. But then you came …” She brightened. “A knight in shining armor and all that.”