Miles Errant - Lois McMaster Bujold [144]
The clone looked distinctly uneasy, but jerked up his chin and managed a proud smile. "I'm not going to be Lord Vorkosigan. I'm going to be Admiral Naismith. I did it once, so I know I can. Your Dendarii are going to give us a ride out of here—and a new power base."
"Ngh!" Miles made a hair-tearing gesture. "D'you think I'd have walked in here if that were even remotely possible? The Dendarii are warned too. Every patrol leader out there—and you'd better believe I have patrols out there—is carrying a med scanner. First order you give, you'll be scanned. If they find leg bone where my synthetics should be, they'll blow your head off. End plot."
"But my leg bones are synthetics," said the clone in a puzzled tone.
Miles froze. "What? You told me your bones didn't break—"
Galen swiveled his head round at the clone. "When did you tell him that?"
"They don't," the clone answered Miles. "But after yours were replaced, so were mine. Otherwise the first cursory med scan I got would have given it all away."
"But you still don't have the pattern of old breaks in your other bones . . . ?"
"No, but that would take a much closer scan. And once the three are eliminated I should be able to avoid that. I'll study your logs—"
"The three what?"
"The three Dendarii who know you are Vorkosigan."
"Your pretty bodyguard, and the other couple," Galen explained vindictively to Miles's look of horror. "I'm sorry you didn't bring her. Now we shall have to hunt her down."
Was that a fleeting queasy look on Mark's face? Galen caught it too, and frowned faintly.
"You still couldn't bring it off," argued Miles. "There are five thousand Dendarii. I know hundreds of them by name, on sight. We've been in combat together. I know things about them their own mothers don't, not in any log. And they've seen me under every kind of stress. You wouldn't even know the right jokes to make. And even if you succeed for a time, become Admiral Naismith as you once planned to become Emperor—where is Mark then? Maybe Mark doesn't want to be a space mercenary. Maybe be wants to be a, a textile designer. Or a doctor—"
"Oh," breathed the clone, with a glance down his twisted body, "not a doctor . . ."
"—or a holovid programmer, or a star pilot, or an engineer. Or very far away from him." Miles jerked his head at Galen; for a moment the clone's eyes filled with a passionate longing, as quickly masked. "How will you ever find out?"
"It's true," said Galen, looking at the clone through suddenly narrowed eyes, "you must pass for an experienced soldier. And you've never killed."
The clone shifted uneasily, looking sideways, at his mentor.
Galen's voice had softened. "You must learn to kill if you expect to survive."
"No, you don't," Miles put in. "Most people go through their whole lives without killing anybody. False argument."
The nerve disruptor's aim steadied on Miles. "You talk too much." Galen's eyes fell one last time on his silent, witnessing son, who raised his chin in defiance, then flicked away as if the sight burned. "It's time to go."
Galen, face hardening decisively, turned to the clone. "Here." He handed him the nerve disruptor. "It's time to complete your education. Shoot them, and let's go."
"What about Ivan?" asked Captain Galeni softly.
"I have as little use for Vorkosigan's nephew as I have for his son," said Galen. "They can skip down to hell hand in hand." His head turned to the clone and he added, "Begin!"
Mark swallowed, and raised the weapon in a two-handed firing stance. "But—what about the credit chit?"
"There is no credit chit. Can't you spot a lie when you hear it, fool?"
Miles raised his wrist comm, and spoke distinctly into it. "Elli, do you have all this?"
"Recorded and transmitted to Captain Thorne in I.Q.,"