Miles Errant - Lois McMaster Bujold [136]
"Handsomely."
"Oh, good. I was afraid they'd hold it up till after we'd delivered Van der Poole too."
"About Van der Poole—Galen," said Miles. "Ah—we're no longer working for the Barrayarans on that one. They've brought in their own team from their Sector headquarters on Tau Ceti."
Throne frowned puzzlement. "But we're still working?"
"For the time being. But you'd better pass the word along to our downside people. From this point on, contact with the Barrayarans is to be avoided."
Thorne's brows rose. "Who are we working for, then?"
"For me."
Thorne paused. "Aren't you playing this one a tad close to your chest, sir?"
"Much too close, if my own Intelligence people are to remain effective." Miles sighed. "All right. An odd and unexpected personal wrinkle has turned up in the middle of this case. Have you ever wondered why I never speak of my family background, or my past?"
"Well—there are a lot of Dendarii who don't. Sir."
"Quite. I was born a clone, Bel."
Thorne looked only mildly sympathetic. "Some of my best friends are clones."
"Perhaps I should say, I was created a clone. In the military laboratory of a galactic power that shall remain nameless. I was created for a covert substitution plot against the son of a certain important man, key of another galactic power—you can figure out who with a very little research, I'm sure—but about seven years ago I declined the honor. I escaped, fled, and set up on my own, creating the Dendarii Mercenaries from, er, materials found ready to hand."
Thorne grinned. "A memorable event."
"But this is where Galen comes in. The galactic power abandoned their plot, and I thought I was free of my unhappy past. But several clones had been run off, so to speak, in the attempt to generate an exact physical duplicate, with certain mental refinements, before the lab finally came up with me. I thought they were all long dead, callously murdered, disposed of. But apparently, one of the earlier, less-successful efforts had been put into cryo-suspension. And somehow, he has fallen into Ser Galen's hands. My sole surviving clone-brother, Bel." Miles's hand closed in a fist. "Enslaved by a fanatic. I want to rescue him." His hand opened in pleading. "Can you understand why?"
Thorne blinked. "Knowing you . . . I guess I do. Is it very important to you, sir?"
"Very."
Thorne straightened slightly. "Then it will be done."
"Thank you." Miles hesitated. "Better have all our downside patrol leaders issued a small medical scanner. Keep it on themselves at all times. As you know, I had my leg bones replaced with synthetics a bit over a year ago. His are normal bone. It's the quickest way to tell the difference between us."
"Your appearance is that close?" said Thorne.
"Our appearances are identical, apparently."
"They are," confirmed Quinn to Thorne. "I've seen him."
"I . . . see. Interesting possibilities for confusion there, sir." Thorne glanced at Quinn, who nodded ruefully.
"Too right. I trust the dissemination of the medical scanners will help keep things dull. Carry on—call me at once if you get a break in the case."
"Right, sir."
In the corridor, Quinn remarked, "Nice save, sir."
Miles sighed. "I had to find some way to warn the Dendarii about Mark. Can't have him playing Admiral Naismith again unimpeded."
"Mark?" said Elli. "Who's Mark, or dare I guess? Miles Mark Two?"
"Lord Mark Pierre Vorkosigan," said Miles calmly. Anyway, he hoped he appeared calm. "My brother."
Elli, alive to the significances of Barrayaran clan claims, frowned. "Is Ivan right, Miles? Has that little sucker hypnotized you?"
"I don't know," said Miles slowly. "If I'm the only one who sees him that way, then maybe, just maybe—"
Elli made an encouraging noise.
A slight smile turned one corner of Miles's mouth. "Then maybe everybody's wrong but me."
Elli snorted.
Miles turned serious again. "I truly don't know. In seven years, I never abused the powers of Admiral Naismith for personal purposes. That's not a record I'm anxious to break. Well, perhaps we'll fail to turn them up,