Miles Errant - Lois McMaster Bujold [117]
Part of the time he floated, part of the time he fell. A crying woman plummeted past him, arms reaching for help, but he couldn't let go of the jar. Her body burst on impact with the ground.
Miles landed feet first on rubbery legs and almost dropped the jar. The mud was thick and black and sucked at his knees.
Lieutenant Murka's body, and Lieutenant Murka's head, lay just where he'd left them on the battleground. His hands cold and shaking, Miles pulled the brain from the jar and tried to shove the brainstem down the plasma-bolt-cauterized neck. It stubbornly refused to hook in.
"He doesn't have a face anyway," criticized Lieutenant Murka's head from where it lay a few meters off. "He's going to look ugly as sin, walking around on my body with that thing sticking up."
"Shut up, you don't get a vote, you're dead," snarled Miles. The slippery brain slithered through his fingers into the mud. He picked it back out and tried clumsily to rub the black goop off on the sleeve of his Dendarii Admiral's uniform, but the harsh cloth scrubbed up the convoluted surface of Mark's brain, damaging it. Miles patted the tissue surreptitiously back into place, hoping no one would notice, and kept trying to shove the brain stem back in the neck.
Miles's eyes flipped open and stared wide. His breath caught. He was shaking and damp with sweat. The light fixture burned steadily in the unwavering ceiling of the cell; the bench was hard and cold on his back. "God. Thank God," he breathed.
Galeni loomed over him in worry, one arm supporting himself against the wall. "You all right?"
Miles swallowed, breathed deeply. "You know it's a bad dream when waking up here is an improvement."
One of his hands caressed the cool, reassuring solidity of the bench. The other found no stitches across his forehead, though his head did feel as if somebody had been doing amateur surgery on it. He blinked, squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again, and with an effort made it up on his right elbow. His left hand was swollen and throbbing. "What happened?"
"It was a draw. One of the guards and I stunned each other. Unfortunately, that left one guard still on his feet. I woke up maybe an hour ago. It was max stun. I don't know how much time we've lost."
"Too much. It was a good try, though. Dammit." He stopped just short of pounding his bad hand on the bench in frustration. "I was so close. I almost had him."
"The guard? It looked like he had you."
"No, my clone. My brother. Whatever he is." Flashes of his dream came back to him, and he shuddered. "Skittish fellow. I think he's afraid he's going to end up in a jar."
"Eh?"
"Eugh." Miles attempted to sit up. The stun had left him feeling nauseated. Muscles spasmed jerkily in his arms and legs. Galeni, clearly in no better shape, tottered back to his own bench and sat.
Some time later the door opened. Dinner, thought Miles.
The guard jerked his stunner at them. "Both of you. Out." The second guard backed him up from behind, several meters beyond hope of reach, with another stunner. Miles did not like the looks on their faces, one solemn and pale, the other smiling nervously.
"Captain Galeni," Miles suggested in a voice rather higher in pitch than he'd meant it to come out as they exited, "I think it might be a good time for you to talk to your father, now."
A variety of expressions chased across Galeni's face: anger, mulish stubbornness, thoughtful appraisal, doubt.
"That way." The guard gestured them toward the lift tube. They dropped down, toward the garage level.
"You can do this, I can't," Miles coaxed Galeni in a sotto voce singsong out of the corner of his mouth.
Galeni hissed through his teeth: frustration, acquiescence, resolve. As they entered the garage, he turned abruptly to the closer guard and jerked out unwillingly, "I wish to speak to my father."
"You can't."
"I think you