Miles Errant - Lois McMaster Bujold [145]
"Not yet." He let his hand fall, stood straight, met Galen's furious eyes and clenched teeth: "As I said. End plot. Let's discuss alternatives."
Mark had lowered the nerve disruptor, his face dismayed.
"Alternatives? Revenge will do!" hissed Galen. "Fire!"
"But—" said the clone, agitated.
"As of this moment, you're a free man." Miles spoke low and fast. "He bought and paid for you, but he doesn't own you. But if you kill for him, he'll own you forever. Forever and ever."
Not necessarily, spoke Galeni's silent quirk of the lips, but he did not interfere with Miles's pitch.
"You must kill your enemies," snarled Galen.
Mark's hand and aim sagged, his mouth opening in protest.
"Now, dammit!" yelled Galen, and made to grab back the nerve disruptor.
Galeni stepped in front of Miles. Miles scrabbled in his jacket for his second stunner. The nerve disruptor crackled. Miles drew, too late, too goddamn late—Captain Galeni gasped—he's dead for my slowness, my one-last-chance stupidity—face harrowed, mouth open in a silent yell, Miles sprang from behind Galeni and aimed his stunner—
To see Galen crumple, convulsing, back arching in a bone-cracking twist, face writhing—and slump in death.
"Kill your enemies," breathed Mark, his face white as paper. "Right. Ah!" he added, raising the weapon again as Miles started forward, "Stop right there!"
A hiss at Miles's feet—he glanced down to see a thin layer of foam wash past his boots, lose momentum, and recede. In a moment, another. The tide was rising over the ledge. The tide was rising—
"Where's Ivan?" Miles demanded, his hand clenching on his stunner.
"If you fire that you'll never know," said Mark.
His eye hurried nervously, from Miles to Galeni, from Galen's body at his feet to the weapon in his own hand, as if they all added up to some impossibly incorrect sum. His breath was shallow and panicky, his knuckles, wrapped around the nerve disruptor, bone-pale. Galeni was standing very, very still, head cocked, looking down at what lay there, or inward; he did not seem to be conscious of the weapon or its wielder at all.
"Fine," said Miles. "You help us and we'll help you. Take us to Ivan."
Mark backed toward the wall, not lowering the nerve disruptor. "I don't believe you."
"Where are you going to run to? You can't go back to the Komarrans. There's a Barayaran hit squad with murder on its collective mind breathing down your neck. You can't go to the local authorities for protection; you have a body to explain. I'm your only chance."
Mark looked at the body, at the nerve disruptor, at Miles.
The soft whirr of a rappel spool unwinding was barely audible over the hiss of the sea foam underfoot. Miles glanced up. Quinn was flying down in one long swoop, like a falcon stooping, weapon in one hand and rappeling spool controlled by the other.
Mark kicked open the hatch and stumbled backwards into it. "You hunt for Ivan. He's not far. I don't have a body to explain—you do. The murder weapon has your fingerprints on it!" He flung down the nerve disruptor and slammed the hatch closed.
Miles leapt for the door, fingers scrabbling, but it was already sealed—he came close to snapping some more finger bones. The slide and clank of a locking mechanism designed to defy the force of the sea itself came muffled through the hatch. Miles hissed through his teeth.
"Should I blow it open?" gasped Quinn, landing.
"Y— good God, no!" The discoloration on the wall marking high water was a good two meters higher than the top of the hatch. "We might drown London. Try to get it open without damaging it. Captain Galeni!" Miles turned. Galeni had not moved. "You in shock?"
"Hm? No . . . no, I don't think so." Galeni came out of himself with an effort. He added in a strangely calm, reflective tone, "Later, perhaps."
Quinn was bent to the hatchway, pulling devices from her pockets and slapping them to the vertical surface, checking readouts. "Electromechanical with a manual override . . . if I use a magnetic . . ."