Miles Errant - Lois McMaster Bujold [259]
"Your ImpSec people didn't even fast-penta me. Aren't you at all worried that I might still be programmed to assassinate you?" Or did he seem so little threat?
"I thought you shot your father-figure once already. Catharsis enough." A bemused grimace curved the Count's mouth.
Mark remembered Galen's surprised look, when the nerve-disruptor beam had taken him full in the face. Whatever Aral Vorkosigan would look like, dying, Mark fancied it would not be surprised.
"You saved Miles's life then, according to his description of the affray," the Count said. "You chose your side two years ago, on Earth. Very effectively. I have many fears for you, Mark, but my death at your hand is not one of them. You're not as one-down with respect to your brother as you imagine. Even-all, by my count."
"Progenitor. Not brother," said Mark, stiff and congealed.
"Cordelia and I are your progenitors," said the Count firmly.
Denial flashed in Mark's face.
The Count shrugged. "Whatever Miles is, we made him. You are perhaps wise to approach us with caution. We may not be good for you, either."
His belly shivered with a terrible longing, restrained by a terrible fear. Progenitors. Parents. He was not sure he wanted parents, at this late date. They were such enormous figures. He felt obliterated in their shadow, shattered like glass, annihilated. He felt a sudden weird wish to have Miles back. Somebody his own size and age, somebody he could talk to.
The Count glanced again into the bedchamber. "Pym should have arranged your things."
"I don't have any things. Just the clothes I'm wearing . . . sir." It was impossible to keep his tongue from adding that honorific.
"You must have had something more to wear!"
"What I brought from Earth, I left in a storage locker on Escobar. The rent's up by now. It's probably confiscated."
The Count looked him over. "I'll send someone to take your measurements, and supply you with a kit. If you were visiting under more normal circumstances, we would be showing you around. Introducing you to friends and relatives. A tour of the city. Getting you aptitude tests, making arrangements for furthering your education. We'll do some of that, in any case."
A school? What kind? Assignment to a Barrayaran military academy was very close to Mark's idea of a descent into hell. Could they make him . . . ? There were ways to resist. He had successfully resisted being lent Miles's wardrobe.
"If you want anything, ring for Pym on your console," the Count instructed.
Human servants. So very strange. The physical fear that had turned him inside out was fading, to be replaced by a more formless general anxiety. "Can I get something to eat?"
"Ah. Please join Cordelia and me for lunch in one hour. Pym will show you to the Yellow Parlor."
"I can find it. Down one floor, one corridor south, third door on the right."
The Count raised an eyebrow. "Correct."
"I've studied you, you see."
"That's all right. We've studied you, too. We've all done our homework."
"So what's the test?"
"Ah, that's the trick of it. It's not a test. It's real life."
And real death. "I'm sorry," Mark blurted. For Miles? For himself? He scarcely knew.
The Count looked as if he was wondering too; a brief ironic smile twitched one corner of his mouth. "Well . . . in a strange way, it's almost a relief to know that it's as bad as it can be. Before, when Miles was missing, one didn't know where he was, what he might be doing to, er, magnify the chaos. At least this time we know he can't possibly get into any worse trouble."
With a brief wave, the Count walked