Miles Errant - Lois McMaster Bujold [210]
"I need not do anything at all, Admiral," the Baron pointed out. Coolly.
Don't bet on it, you Jacksonian bastard. "Why do you want this particular clone, Baron? Considering how readily you could make yourself another."
"Not that readily. His medical records reveal he was quite a challenge." Vasa Luigi tapped the side of his aquiline nose with one forefinger and smiled without much humor.
"Do you plan punishment? A warning to other malefactors?"
"He will doubtless regard it so."
So, there was a plan for Mark, or at least an idea that smelled of some profit. "Nothing in the direction of our Barrayaran progenitor, I trust. That plot is long dead. They know about us both."
"I admit, his Barrayaran connections interest me. Your Barrayaran connections interest me too. It is obvious from the name that you took for yourself that you've long known where you came from. Just what is your relationship with Barrayar, Admiral?"
"Queasy," he admitted. "They tolerate me, I do them a favor now and then. For a price. Beyond that, mutual avoidance. Barrayaran Imperial Security has a longer arm even than House Bharaputra. You don't want to attract their negative attention, I assure you."
Vasa Luigi's brows rose, politely skeptical. "A progenitor and two clones . . . three identical brothers. And all so short. Among you, I suppose you make a whole man."
Not to the point; the Baron was casting for something, information, presumably. "Three, but hardly identical," said Miles. "The original Lord Vorkosigan is a dull stick, I am assured. The limitations of Mark's capacities, he has just demonstrated, I fear. I was the improved model. My creators planned higher things for me, but they did their job too well, and I began planning for myself. A trick neither of my poor siblings seems to have mastered."
"I wish I could talk with your creators."
"I wish you could too. They are deceased."
The Baron favored him with a chill smile. "You're a cocky little fellow, aren't you?"
Miles stretched his lips in return, and said nothing.
The Baron sat back, tenting his fingers. "My offer stands. The clone is not for sale. But every thirty minutes, the fines will double. I advise you to close your deal quickly, Admiral. You will not get a better."
"I must have a brief consultation with my Fleet accountant," Miles temporized. "I will return your call shortly."
"How else?" Vasa Luigi murmured, with a small smile at his own wit.
Miles cut the comm abruptly, and sat. His stomach was shaking, hot red waves of shame and anger radiating outward through his whole body from the pit of his belly.
"But the Fleet accountant isn't here," Quinn pointed out, sounding slightly confused. Lieutenant Bone had indeed departed with Baz and the rest of the Dendarii from Escobar.
"I . . . don't like Baron Bharaputra's deal."
"Can't ImpSec rescue Mark later?"
"I am ImpSec."
Quinn could hardly disagree; she fell silent.
"I want my space armor," he growled petulantly, hunching in his station chair.
"Mark has it," said Quinn.
"I know. My half-armor. My command headset."
"Mark has those too."
"I know." His hand slapped down hard on the arm of the chair, the harsh crack in the quiet chamber making Quinn flinch. "A squad leader's helmet, then!"
"What for?" said Quinn in a flat, unencouraging tone. "No crusades here, you said."
"I'm cutting myself a better deal." He swung to his feet. His blood beat in his ears, hotter and hotter. "Come on."
The seat straps bit into his body as the drop shuttle blew its clamps and accelerated away from the side of the Peregrine. Miles glanced up over the pilot's shoulder for a quick check of the planet's curvature sliding across the window, and a glimpse of his two fighter-shuttles peeling away from the mothership to cover them. They were followed by the Peregrine's second combat-drop shuttle, the other half of his two pronged attack. His faint feint.