Lois Bujold - Mirror Dance

The smoldering look she gave him in return was more eloquent than the bluest string of swear words he’d ever heard. Her lips moved—counting to ten?—but no sound came out. When she did speak, her tone was clipped to a burr. “I’ll have your pod at the station’s hatch ring in eleven minutes.”

“Thank you.”

The medic was surly.

“Look, I’ve been through this. For hours on end. We’re done.”

“I promise I’ll keep it brief,” Mark assured him. “Just one question.”

The medic eyed Mark malignantly, perhaps correctly identifying him as the reason why he’d been stuck ship-bound in Komarr orbit for the last dozen weeks.

“When you and Norwood were taking your cryonics training at Beauchene Life Center, do you ever remember meeting a Dr. Durona? Handing out lab supplies, maybe?”

“The place was knee-deep in doctors. No. Can I go now?” The medic made to rise.

“Wait!”

“That was your one question. And the ImpSec goons asked it before you.”

“And that was the answer you gave them? Wait. Let me think.” Mark bit his lip anxiously. The name alone was not enough to hare off on, not even for him. There had to be more. “Do you ever remember … Norwood being in contact with a tall, striking woman with Eurasian features, straight black hair, brown eyes … extremely smart.” He didn’t dare to suggest an age. It could be anywhere between twenty and sixty.

The medic stared at him in astonishment. “Yeah! How did you know?”

“What was she? What was her relation with Norwood?”

“She was a student too, I think. He was chasing her for a time, playing off his military glamour to the hilt, but I don’t think he caught her.”

“Do you remember her name?”

“Roberta, or something like that. Rowanna. I don’t remember.”

“Was she from Jackson’s Whole?”

“Escobaran, I thought.” The medic shrugged. “The clinic had post-doc trainees from all over the planet to take residencies in cryo-revival. I never talked to her. I saw her with Norwood a couple of times. He might have figured we’d try to cut him out with her.”

“So the clinic is a top place. With a wide reputation.”

“We thought so.”

“Wait here.” Mark left the medic sitting in the Ariel’s little briefing room, and rushed out to find Quinn. He hadn’t far to rush. She was waiting in the corridor, her boot tapping.

“Quinn, quick! I need a visual off Sergeant Taura’s helmet recorder from the drop mission. Just one still.”

“ImpSec confiscated the originals.”

“You kept copies, surely.”

She smiled sourly. “Maybe.”

“ Please, Quinn!”

“Wait here.” She returned promptly, and handed him a data disk. This time she followed him into the briefing room. Since the secured console wouldn’t take his palm-print any more no matter how he wriggled it, Mark perforce let her power it up. He fast-forwarded Taura’s visuals to the image he wanted. A close-up of a tall, dark-haired girl, her head turning, eyes wide. Mark blurred the background of the clone-creche, in the view.

Only then did he motion the medic to look.

“Hey!”

“Is it her?”

“It’s …” the medic peered. “She’s younger. But it’s her. Where did you get that?”

“Never mind. Thank you. I won’t take any more of your time. You’ve been a great help.”

The medic exited as reluctantly as he had entered, staring back over his shoulder.

“What’s this all about, Mark?” Quinn demanded.

“When we’re on my ship and on our way, I’ll tell you. Not before.” He had a head-start on ImpSec, and he wasn’t going to give it up. If they were anything less than desperate, they’d never let him go, Countess or no Countess. It was quite fair; he didn’t have any information ImpSec didn’t, potentially. He’d just put it together a little differently.

“Where the hell did you get a ship?”

“My mother gave it to me.” He tried not to smirk.

“The Countess? Rats! She’s turning you loose?”

“Don’t begrudge me my little ship, Quinn. After all, my parents gave my big brother a whole fleet of ships.” His eyes gleamed. “I’ll see you on board, as soon as Captain Bothari-Jesek reports it ready.”

His ship. Not stolen, nothing faked or false. His by right of legitimate gift. He who’d never had a birthday present, had one now. Twenty-two years’ worth.

The little yacht was a generation old, formerly owned by a Komarran oligarch in the balmy days before the Barrayaran conquest. It had been quite luxurious, once, but obviously had been neglected for the past ten years or so. This did not represent hard times for the Komarran clan, Mark understood; they were in process of replacing it, hence the sale. The Komarrans understood business, and the Vor understood the relation between business and taxation. Business under the new regime had recovered much of its former vigor.

Mark had declared the yacht’s lounge to be the mission-briefing room. He glanced around now at his invitees, draped variously over the furniture secured to the carpeted deck around a fake fireplace that ran a vid program of atavistic dancing flames, complete with infra-red radiance.

Quinn was there, of course, still in her Dendarii uniform. She had entirely overgrazed her fingernails and had taken to cheek-biting instead. Bel Thorne sat silent and reserved, a permanent bleakness emphasizing the fine lines around its eyes. Sergeant Taura loomed next to Thorne, big and puzzled and wary.

It was no strike-group. Mark wondered if he ought to have packed along more muscle … no. If there was one thing his first mission had taught him, it was that if you didn’t have enough force to win, it was better not to engage force at all. What he had done was cream off the maximum expertise the Dendarii could supply on the subject of Jackson’s Whole.

Captain Bothari-Jesek entered, and gave him a nod. “We’re on our way. We’ve broken orbit, and your pilot has the comm. Twenty hours to the first jump point.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

Quinn made a place beside her for Bothari-Jesek; Mark sat on the fake fieldstone hearth with his back to the crackling flames, his hands clasped loosely between his knees. He took a deep breath. “Welcome aboard, and thank you all for coming. You all understand, this is not in official Dendarii expedition, and is neither authorized nor funded by ImpSec. Our expenses are being privately paid by Countess Vorkosigan. You are all listed as being on unpaid personal leave. With one exception, I have no formal authority over any of you. Nor you over me. We do have an urgent mutual interest, which demands we pool our skills and information. The first piece is the proper identity of Admiral Naismith. You’ve brought Captain Thorne and Sergeant Taura up to speed on that, haven’t you, Quinn?”

Bel Thorne nodded. “Old Tung and I had it figured out a long time ago. Miles’s secret identity isn’t as secret as he hoped, I’m afraid.”

“It was news to me,” rumbled Sergeant Taura. “It sure explained a lot I’d wondered about, though.”

“Welcome to the Inner Circle anyway,” said Quinn. “Officially.” She turned to Mark. “All right, what do you have? A connection, finally?”

“Oh, Quinn. I’m up to my ass in connections. It’s motive I’m missing now.”

“You’re ahead of ImpSec, then.”

“Maybe not for long. They’ve sent an agent to Escobar for more details on the Beauchene Life Center—they’re bound to make the same connection I did. Eventually. But I planned this expedition with a primary list of twenty sites on Jackson’s Whole to re-check in depth. As a result of something I found in Norwood’s personal effects, I’ve altered the order of the list. If Miles gets revived—which is part of my hypothesis—how long d’you think it would be till he did something to draw attention to himself?”