Lois Bujold: Mirror Dance

Thorne’s spine straightened. “Right. How many kids are we talking about?”

“Bharaputra does about one of these transplants a week, on average. Fifty a year, say, that they have coming along. The last year of the clones’ lives they move them to a special facility near House headquarters, for final conditioning. I want to take the whole year’s supply from that facility. Fifty or sixty kids.”

“All packed aboard the Ariel? It’ll be tight.”

“Speed, Bel, speed.”

“Yeah. I think you’re right. Timetable?”

“As soon as possible. Every week’s delay costs another innocent life.” He’d measured out the last two years by that clock. I have wasted a hundred lives so far. The journey from Earth to Escobar alone had cost him a thousand Betan dollars and four dead clones.

“I get it,” said Thorne grimly, and rose and put away its tea cup. It switched its chair to the clamps in front of its comconsole. “That kid’s slated for surgery, isn’t it.”

“Yes. And if not that one, a creche-mate.”

Thorne began tapping keypads. “What about funds? That is your department.”

“This mission is cash on delivery. Draw your estimated needs from Fleet funds.”

“Right. Put your palm over here and authorize my withdrawal, then.” Thorne held out a sensor pad.

Without hesitation, he laid his palm flat upon it. To his horror, the red no-recognition code glinted in the readout. No! It has to be right, it has to—!

“Damn machine.” Thorne tapped the sensor pad’s corner sharply on the table. “Behave. Try again.”

This time, he laid his palm down with a very slight twist; the computer digested the new data, and this time pronounced him cleared, accepted, blessed. Funded. His pounding heart slowed in relief.

Thorne keyed in more data, and said over its shoulder, “No question which commando squad you want to requisition for this one, eh?”

“No question,” he echoed hollowly. “Go ahead.” He had to get out of here, before the strain of the masquerade made him blow away his good start.

“You want your usual cabin?” Thorne inquired.

“Sure.” He stood.

“Soon, I gather …” The hermaphrodite checked a readout in the glowing complexity of logistics displays above the comconsole vid plate. “The palm lock is still keyed for you. Get off your feet, you look beat. It’s under control.”

“Good.”

“When will Elli Quinn be along?”

“She won’t be coming on this mission.”

Thorne’s eyes widened in surprise. “ Really.” Its smile broadened, quite inexplicably. “That’s too bad.” Its voice conveyed not the least disappointment. Some rivalry, there? Over what?

“Have the Triumph send over my kit,” he ordered. Yes, delegate that thievery too. Delegate it all. “And … when you get the chance, have a meal sent to my cabin.”

“Will do,” promised Thorne with a firm nod. “I’m glad to see you’ve been eating better, by the way, even if you haven’t been sleeping. Good. Keep it up. We worry about you, you know.”

Eating better, hell. With his stature, keeping his weight down had become a constant battle. He’d starved for three months just to get back into Naismith’s uniform, that he’d stolen two years ago and now wore. Another wave of weary hatred for his progenitor washed over him. He let himself out with a casual salute that he trusted would encourage Thorne to keep working, and managed to keep from snarling under his breath till the cabin door hissed shut behind him.

There was nothing for it but to try every palm lock in the corridor till one opened. He hoped no Dendarii would come along while he was rattling doors. He found his cabin at last, directly across from the hermaphrodite captain’s. The door slid open at his touch on the sensor pad without any heart-stopping glitches this time.

The cabin was a little chamber almost identical to Thorne’s, only blanker. He checked cupboards. Most were bare, but in one he found a set of gray fatigues and a stained tech coverall just his size. A residue of half-used toiletries in the cabin’s tiny washroom included a toothbrush, and his lips twisted in an ironical sneer. The neatly made bed which folded out of the wall looked extremely attractive, and he nearly swooned into it.

I’m on my way. I’ve done it. The Dendarii had accepted him, accepted his orders with the same stupid blind trust with which they followed Naismith’s. Like sheep. All he had to do now was not screw it up. The hardest part was over.

He’d grabbed a quick shower and was just pulling on Naismith’s trousers when his meal arrived. His undress state gave him an excuse to wave the attentive tray-bearing Dendarii out again quickly. The dinner under the covers turned out to be real food, not rations. Grilled vat steak, fresh-appearing vegetables, non-synthetic coffee, the hot food hot and the cold food cold, beautifully laid out in little portions finely calculated to Naismith’s appetite. Even ice cream. He recognized his progenitor’s tastes, and was daunted anew by this rush by unknown people to try to give him exactly what he wanted, even in these tiny details. Rank had its privileges, but this was insane.

Depressed, he ate it all, and was just wondering if the fuzzy green stuff arranged to fill up all the empty space on the plate was edible too, when the cabin buzzer blatted again.

This time, it was a Dendarii non-com and a float pallet with three big crates on it.

“Ah,” he blinked. “My kit. Just set it there in the middle of the floor, for now.”

“Yes, sir. Don’t you want to assign a batman?” The non-com’s inviting expression left no doubt about who was first in line to volunteer.

“Not … this mission. We’re going to be cramped for space, later. Just leave it.”

“I’d be happy to unpack it for you, sir. I packed it all up.”

“Quite all right.”

“If I’ve missed anything, just let me know, and I’ll run it right over.”

“ Thank you, corporal.” His exasperation leaked into his voice; fortunately, it acted as a brake upon the corporal’s enthusiasm. The Dendarii heaved the crates from the float pallet and exited with a sheepish grin, as if to say, Hey, you can’t blame me for trying.

He smiled back through set teeth, and turned his attention to the crates as soon as the door sealed. He flipped up the latches and hesitated, bemused at his own eagerness. It must be rather like getting a birthday present. He’d never had a birthday present in his life. So, let’s make up for some lost time.

The first lid folded back to reveal clothes, more clothes than he’d ever owned before. Tech coveralls, undress kit, a dress uniform—he held up the grey velvet tunic, and raised his brows at the shimmer and the silver buttons—boots, shoes, slippers, pajamas, all regulation, all cut down to perfect fit. And civilian clothes, eight or ten sets, in various planetary and galactic styles and social levels. An Escobaran business suit in red silk, a Barrayaran quasi-military tunic and piped trousers, ship knits, a Betan sarong and sandals, a ragged jacket and shirt and pants suitable for a down-on-his-luck dockworker anywhere. Abundant underwear. Three kinds of chronos with build-in comm units, one Dendarii regulation, one very expensive commercial model, one appearing cheap and battered, which turned out to be finest military surplus underneath. And more.

He moved to the second crate, flipped up the lid, and gaped. Space armor. Full-bore attack unit space armor, power and life support packs fully charged, weapons loaded and locked. Just his size. It seemed to gleam with its own dark and wicked glow, nested in its packing. The smell of it hit him, incredibly military, metal and plastic, energy and chemicals … old sweat. He drew the helmet out and stared with wonder into the darkened mirror of its visor. He had never worn space armor, though he’d studied it in holovids till his eyes crossed. A sinister, deadly carapace …