Lois Bujold - Mirror Dance

“Yes. We’re letting her sleep it off. She should feel all right when she wakes up.”

He took one of the sealed meal trays and set it down by the blonde’s head, for when she did wake. Her breathing was slow and steady. There seemed not much else he could do for her. He looked up to catch the Eurasian girl watching him with knowing, malicious eyes, and he turned hastily away.

Bothari-Jesek completed her inspection and exited, and he followed in her trail. She paused to speak with the stunner-armed guard in the corridor.

“—wide dispersal,” she was saying. “Shoot first and ask questions later. They’re all young and healthy, you don’t have to worry about hidden heart conditions with this lot, I don’t think. But I doubt they’ll give you much trouble.”

“With one exception,” Mark put in. “There’s this dark-haired girl, slim, very striking—she appears to have undergone some special mental conditioning. Not … quite sane. Watch out for her.”

“Yes, sir,” said the trooper automatically, then caught himself, glancing at Bothari-Jesek, ”… uh …”

“Sergeant Taura confirms the report on that one,” said Bothari-Jesek. “Anyway, I don’t want any of them loose on my ship. They’re totally untrained. Their ignorance could be as dangerous as any hostility. This is not an ornamental guard post. Stay awake.”

They exchanged parting salutes. The trooper, overcoming reflex, managed not to include Mark in his directed courtesy. Mark trotted after Bothari-Jesek’s long stride.

“So,” she said after a moment, “does our treatment of your clones meet with your approval?” He could not quite tell if her tone was ironic.

“It’s as good as anyone could do for them, for now.” He bit his tongue, but the too self-revealing outburst escaped it anyway. “Dammit, it’s not fair!”

Bothari-Jesek’s brows rose, as she paced along the corridor. “What’s not fair?”

“I saved these kids—or we did, you did—and they act like we’re some kind of villains, kidnappers, monsters. They’re not happy at all.”

“Perhaps … it will have to be enough for you just to have saved them. To demand that they be happy about it too may exceed your mandate … little hero.” Her tone was unmistakably ironic now, though oddly devoid of scorn.

“You’d think there’d be a little gratitude. Belief. Acknowledgement. Something.”

“Trust?” she said in a quiet voice.

“Yes, trust! At least from some of them. Can’t any of them tell we’re on the level?”

“They’ve been rather traumatized. I wouldn’t expect too much if I were you, till they get a chance to see more evidence.” She paused, in speech and stride, and swung to face him. “But if you ever figure it out—figure out how to make an ignorant, traumatized, paranoid stupid kid trust you—tell Miles. He urgently wants to know.”

Mark stood, nonplussed. “Was that … directed to me?” he demanded, dry-mouthed.

She glanced over his head, around the empty corridor, and smiled i bitter, maddening smile. “You’re home.” She nodded pointedly toward his cabin door. “Stay there.”

He slept at last, for a long time, though when Quinn came to wake him it seemed like not long enough. Mark wasn’t sure if Quinn had slept at all, though she had finally cleaned up and changed back into her officer’s undress greys. He’d been starting to imagine her planning to wear the bloodstained fatigues till they retrieved the cryo-chamber, as some sort of vow. Even without the fatigues she radiated an unsettling edginess, red-eyed and strained.

“Come on,” she growled. “I need you to talk to Fell again. He’s been giving me a run-around. I’m starting to wonder if he could be in collusion with Bharaputra. I don’t understand, it doesn’t add up.”

She hauled him off to the tac room again, though this time she did not rely on the ear-bug, but stood aggressively at his elbow. To the outside eye, she’d ranged herself as bodyguard and chief assistant; all Mark could think of was how conveniently placed she was to grab him by the hair and slit his throat.

Captain Bothari-Jesek sat in, occupying a spare station chair as before, watching quietly. She eyed Quinn’s frazzled demeanor with a look of concern, but said nothing.

When Fell’s face appeared above the vid plate again, its pinkness was decidedly more irate than jolly. “Admiral Naismith, I told Captain Quinn that when I had firm information, / would contact you.”

“Baron, Captain Quinn … serves me. Please forgive any importunity on her part. She only, ah, faithfully reflects my own anxieties.” Miles’s typical overflowing vocabulary filled his mouth like flour. Quinn’s fingers bit into his shoulder, silent painful warning that he had better not let his invention carry him too far. “What, shall we say, less-than-firm information can you give us?”

Fell settled back, frowning but placated. “To put it bluntly, the Bharaputrans say they cannot find your cryo-chamber.”

“It has to be there,” hissed Quinn.

“Now, now, Quinnie.” Mark patted her hand. It clamped like a vise. Her nostrils flared murderously, but she achieved a faint false smile for the holovid. Mark turned back to Fell. “Baron—in your best judgment—are the Bharaputrans lying?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Do you have some independent corroboration for your opinion? Agents on site, or anything of the sort?”

The Baron’s lips twisted. “Really, Admiral, I cannot say.”

Naturally not. He rubbed his face, a Naismith-thoughtful gesture. “Can you say anything specific about what the Bharaputrans are doing?”

“They are in fact turning their medical complex inside out right now. All the employees, and all the security forces they brought in to contain your raid, have been engaged in the search.”

“Could it be an elaborate charade, to mislead us?”

The Baron paused. “No,” he said flatly at last. “They’re really scrambling. On all levels. Are you aware …” he took a decisive breath, “of what your kidnapping of Baron Bharaputra, if it should prove more than a brief interlude, could do to the balance of power among the Great Houses of Jackson’s Whole?”

“No, what?”

The Baron’s chin went up, and he checked Mark sharply for signs of sarcasm. The vertical lines between his eyes deepened, but he answered seriously. “You should realize, the value of your hostage may go down with time. No power-vacuum at the top of a Great House, or even a House Minor, can last long. There are always factions of younger men waiting, perhaps in secret, to rush in and fill it. Even supposing Lotus manages to get Vasa Luigi’s chief loyalist lieutenant to fill and retain his place—as time goes on, it can only dawn on him that the return of his master will involve demotion as well as reward. Think of a Great House as the hydra of mythology. Chop off its head, and seven more arise on the stump of neck—and begin biting each other. Eventually, only one will survive. In the meantime, the House is weakened, and all its old alliances and deals are thrown into doubt. The turmoil expands in a widening ring to associate Houses … such abrupt changes are not welcomed, here. Not by anyone.” Least of all by Baron Fell himself, Mark gathered.

“Except maybe by your younger colleagues,” Mark suggested.

A wave of Fell’s hand dismissed the concerns of his younger colleagues. If they wanted power, the wave implied, let them plot and scramble and kill for it as he had.

“Well, I have no desire to keep Baron Bharaputra till he grows old and moldy,” said Mark. “I have no personal use for him at all, out of this context. Please urge House Bharaputra to speed in finding my brother, eh?”