Lois Bujold - Mirror Dance

“All that therapeutic kissing,” he smiled, a suggestive compliment :hat won him, as he’d hoped, some more therapy. But when he came up for air he said, “It won’t come back to me if I’m the other one. I remember Galen. Earth. A house in London … what’s the clone’s name?”

“We don’t know,” she said, and at his exasperated grasp of her bands added, “No, we really don’t.”

“Admiral Naismith … shouldn’t be Miles Naismith. He should be Mark Pierre Vorkosigan.” How the hell did he know that? Mark Pierre. Piotr Pierre. Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater, had a wife and wouldn’t keep her, a taunt from out of a crowd that had put an old man into a terrifying murderous rage, he’d had to be restrained by— the image escaped him. Gran’da? “If the Bharaputra-made clone is the third son, he could be named anything.” Something wasn’t right.

He tried to imagine Admiral Naismith’s childhood as a Cetagandan secret covert ops project. His childhood? It must have been extraordinary, if he’d not only escaped at the age of eighteen or less, but invaded Cetagandan Intelligence and established his fortune within a year. But he could think of nothing from such a youth. A complete blank.

“What are you going to do with me if I’m not Naismith? Keep me is a pet? For how long?”

Rowan pursed her lips in worry. “If you are the Bharaputran-made clone—you’re going to need to get off Jackson’s Whole yourself. The Dendarii raid made an awful mess out of Vasa Luigi’s headquarters. He has blood to avenge, as well as property. And pride. If it’s the case—I’ll try to get you out.”

“You? Or you all?”

“I’ve never gone against the group.” She rose, and paced across her sitting room. “Yet I lived a year, on Escobar, alone, when I was taking my cryo-revival training. I’ve often wondered … what it would be like to be half of a couple. Instead of one-fortieth of a group. Would I feel bigger?”

“Were you bigger when you were all of one, on Escobar?”

“I don’t know. It’s a silly conceit. Still—one can’t help thinking of Lotus.”

“Lotus. Baronne Bharaputra? The one who left your group?”

“Yes. Lilly’s oldest daughter after Rose. Lilly says … if we don’t hang together, we’ll all hang separately. It’s a reference to an ancient method of execution that—”

“I know what hanging is,” he said hastily, before she could go into the medical details.

Rowan stared out her window. “Jackson’s Whole is no place to be alone. You can’t trust anybody.”

“An interesting paradox. Makes for quite a dilemma.”

She searched his face for irony, found it, and frowned. “It’s no joke.”

Indeed. Even Lilly Durona’s self-referential maternal strategy hadn’t quite solved the problem, as Lotus had proved.

He eyed her. “Were you ordered to sleep with me?” he asked suddenly.

She flinched. “No.” She paced again. “But I did ask permission. Lilly said to go ahead, it might help attach you to our interests.” She paused. “Does that seem terribly cold, to you?”

“On Jackson’s Whole—merely prudent.” And attachments surely ran two ways. Jackson’s Whole was no place to be alone. But you can’t trust anyone.

If anyone was sane here, he swore it was by accident.

Reading, an exercise that had at first given him a stabbing sensation in the eyes and instant excruciating headaches, was getting easier. He could go for up to ten minutes at a time now before it became too blinding to bear. Holed up in Rowan’s study, he pushed himself to the limits of pain, an information-bite, a few minutes’ rest, and try again. Beginning at the center outward, he read up first on Jackson’s Whole, its unique history, non-governmental structure, and the one hundred and sixteen Great Houses and countless Houses Minor, with their interlocking alliances and vendettas, roiling deals and betrayals. The Durona Group was well on its way to growing into a House Minor in its own right, he judged, budding from House Fell like a hydra, also like a hydra reproducing asexually. Mentions of Houses Bharaputra, Hargraves, Dyne, Ryoval and Fell triggered images in his head that did not come from the vid display. A few of them were even starting to cross-connect. Too few. He wondered if it was significant that the Houses that seemed most familiar were also the ones most famous for dealing in off-planet illegalities.

Whoever I am, I know this place. And yet … his visions tasted small in scope, too shallow to represent a formative lifetime. Maybe he’d been a small person. Still, it was more than he could dredge up from his subconscious regarding the youth of the putative Admiral Naismith, the Cetagandan-produced clone.

Gran’da. Those had been memories with mass, an almost stunning sensory weight. Who was Gran’da? Jacksonian fosterer? Komarran mentor? Cetagandan trainer? Someone huge and fascinating, mysterious and old and dangerous. Gran’da had no source, he seemed to come with the universe.

Sources. Perhaps a study of his progenitor, the crippled Barrayaran lordling Vorkosigan, might yield up something. He’d been made in Vorkosigan’s image, after all, which was a hell of a thing to do to any poor sod. He pulled up a listing of references to Barrayar from Rowan’s comconsole library. There were some hundreds of non-fiction books, vids, documents and documentaries. For the sake of a frame, he began with a general history, scanning rapidly. The Fifty-thousand Firsters. Wormhole collapse. The Time of Isolation, the Bloody Centuries … the Re-discovery … the words blurred. His head felt full to bursting. Familiar, so achingly familiar … he had to stop.

Panting, he darkened the room and lay down on the little sofa till his eyes stopped throbbing. But then, if he’d ever been trained to replace Vorkosigan, it all ought to be very familiar indeed. He’d have had to study Barrayar forward and backward. I have. He wanted to beg Rowan to shackle him to a wall and give him another dose of fast-penta, regardless of what it did to his blood pressure. The stuff had almost worked. Maybe another try …

The door hissed. “Hello?” The lights came up. Rowan stood in the doorway. “Are you all right?”

“Headache. Reading.”

“You shouldn’t try to …”

Take it so fast, he supplied silently, Rowan’s constant refrain of the last few days, since his interview with Lilly. But this time, she cut herself off. He pushed up; she came and sat by him. “Lilly wants me to bring you upstairs.”

“All right—” He made to rise, but she stopped him.

She kissed him. It was a long, long kiss, which at first delighted and then worried him. He broke away to ask, “Rowan, what’s the matter?”

“… I think I love you.”

“This is a problem?”

“Only my problem.” She managed a brief, unhappy smile. “I’ll handle it.”

He captured her hands, traced tendon and vein. She had brilliant hands. He did not know what to say.

She drew him to his feet. “Come on.” They held hands all the way to the entrance to the penthouse lift-tube. When she disengaged to press the palm lock, she did not take his hand again. They rose together, and exited around the chromium railing into Lilly’s living room.

Lilly sat upright and formal in her wide padded chair, her white hair braided today in a single thick rope that wound down over her shoulder to her lap. She was attended by Hawk, who stood silently behind her and to her right. Not an attendant. A guard. Three strangers dressed in grey quasi-military uniforms with white trim were ranged around her, two women seated and a man standing. One of the women had dark curls, and brown eyes that turned on him with a gaze that scorched him. The other, older woman had short light-brown hair barely touched with grey. But it was the man who riveted him.