Miles Errant - Lois McMaster Bujold [110]
Miles cleared his throat again. "I might point out that, in point of fact, we met for the very first time three nights ago. Whatever was done to you was not done by me."
"You," said the clone, "screwed me over just by existing. It hurts me that you breathe." He spread a hand across his chest. "However, that will be cured very shortly. But Galen promised me an interview first." He wheeled off the desk and began to pace; Miles's feet twitched. "He promised me."
"And where is Ser Galen this morning, by the way?" Miles inquired mildly.
"Out." The clone favored him with a sour grin. "For a little slice of time."
Miles's brows rose. "This conversation is unauthorized?"
"He promised me. But then he reneged. Wouldn't say why."
"Ah—hm. Since yesterday?"
"Yes." The clone paused in his pacing to regard Miles through narrowed eyes. "Why?"
"I think it may have been something I said. Thinking out loud," Miles said. "I'm afraid I figured out one too many things about his plot. Something even you weren't supposed to know. He was afraid I'd spill it under fast-penta. That suited me. The less you were able to pump from me, the more likely you'd be to make a mistake." Miles waited, barely breathing, to see which way this bait would be taken. A whiff of the exhilarated hyperconsciousness of combat thrilled along his nerves.
"I'll bite," said the clone agreeably. His eyes gleamed, sardonic. "Spill it, then."
When he was seventeen, this clone's age, he'd been—inventing the Dendarii Mercenaries, Miles recalled. Perhaps it would be better not to underestimate him. What would it be like to be a clone? How far under the skin did their similarity end? "You're a sacrifice," Miles stated bluntly. "He does not intend for you to make it alive to the Barrayaran Imperium."
"Do you think I haven't figured that out?" the clone scoffed. "I know he doesn't think I can make it. Nobody thinks I can make it—"
Miles's breath caught as from a blow. This twang bit bone-deep.
"But I'll show them. Ser Galen," the clone's eyes glittered, "is going to be very surprised at what happens when I come to power."
"So will you," Miles predicted morosely.
"D'you think I'm stupid?" the clone demanded.
Miles shook his head. "I know exactly how stupid you are, I'm afraid."
The clone smiled tightly. "Galen and his friends spent a month farting around London, chasing you, just trying to set up for the switch. It was I who told them to have you kidnap yourself. I've studied you longer than any of them, harder than all of them. I knew you couldn't resist. I can outthink you."
Demonstrably true, alas, at least in this instance. Miles fought off a wave of despair. The kid was good, too good—he had it all, right down to the screaming tension radiating from every muscle in his body. Twang. Or was that home-grown? Could different pressures produce the same warps? What would it be like, behind those eyes . . . ?
Miles's eye fell on the Dendarii uniform. His own insignia winked back at him malevolently as the clone paced. "But you can outthink Admiral Naismith?"
The clone smiled proudly. "I got your soldiers released from jail this morning. Something you hadn't been able to do, evidently."
"Danio?" Miles croaked, fascinated. No, no, say it isn't so. . . .
"He's back on duty." The clone nodded incisively.
Miles suppressed a small moan.
The clone paused, glanced at Miles intently, some of his decisiveness falling away. "Speaking of Admiral Naismith—are you sleeping with that woman?"
What kind of life had this kid led? Miles wondered anew. Secret—always watched, constantly force-tutored, allowed contact with only a few selected persons—almost cloistered. Had the Komarrans thought to include that in his training, or was he a seventeen-year-old virgin? In which case he must be obsessed with sex . . . "Quinn," said Miles, "is six years older than me. Extremely experienced. And demanding. Accustomed to a high degree of finesse in her chosen