Miles Errant - Lois McMaster Bujold [69]
The very fact she was willing to reintroduce herself confirmed he'd chosen the right tack. "Ah." He drew back from her slightly. "The news services. I didn't realize. Excuse me, ma'am. I should not be talking to you without permission from my superiors." He made to turn away.
"No, wait—ah—-Lord Vorkosigan. Oh—you're not related to that Vorkosigan, are you?"
He jerked up his chin and tried to look stern. "My father."
"Oh," she breathed in a tone of enlightenment, "that explains it."
Thought it might, Miles thought smugly. He made a few more little escaping motions. She clamped to him like a limpet. "No, please . . . if you don't tell me, I shall surely investigate it on my own."
"Well . . ." Miles paused. "It's all rather old data, from our point of view. I can tell you a few things, I suppose, since it impinges upon me so personally. But it is not for public dissemination. You must give me your word of that, first."
"A Barrayaran Vor lord's word is his bond, is it not?" she said. "I never reveal my sources."
"Very well." Miles nodded, pretending he was under the impression she'd promised, though her words in fact had said nothing of the sort. He nabbed a pair of chairs, and they settled themselves out of the way of the roboservers clearing the banquet debris. Miles cleared his throat and launched himself.
"The biological construct who calls himself Admiral Naismith is . . . perhaps the most dangerous man in the galaxy. Cunning—resolute—both Cetagandan and Barrayaran Security have attempted, in the past, to assassinate him, without success. He's started to build himself a power-base, with his Dendarii Mercenaries. We still don't know what his long-range plans for this private army are, except that he must have some."
Vallerie's finger went to her lips doubtfully. "He seemed—pleasant enough, when I spoke with him. Allowing for the circumstance. A brave man, certainly."
"Aye, there's the genius and the wonder of the man," cried Miles, then decided he'd better tone it down a bit. "Charisma. Surely the Cetagandans, if it was the Cetagandans, must have intended something extraordinary for him. He's a military genius, you know."
"Wait a moment," she said. "He is a true clone, you say—not just an exterior copy? Then he must be even younger than yourself."
"Yes. His growth, his education, were artificially accelerated, apparently to the limits of the process. But where have you seen him?"
"Here in London," she answered, started to say more, and then stopped. "But you say Barrayar is trying to kill him?" She drew away from him slightly. "I think perhaps I'd better let you trace him yourselves."
"Oh, not anymore." Miles laughed shortly. "Now we just keep track of him. He'd dropped out of sight recently, you see, which makes my own security extremely nervous. Clearly, he must have been originally created for some sort of substitution plot aimed ultimately against my father. But seven years ago he went renegade, broke away from his captors-creators, and started working for himself. We—Barrayar—know too much about him now, and he and I have diverged too much, for him to attempt to replace me at this late date."
She eyed him. "He could. He really could."
"Almost." Miles smiled grimly. "But if you could ever get us in the same room, you'd see I was almost two centimeters taller than he is. Late growth, on my part. Hormone treatments . . ." His invention must give out soon—he babbled on. . . .
"The Cetagandans, however, are still trying to kill him. So far, that's the best proof we have that he's actually their creation. Clearly, he must know too much about something. We'd dearly love to know what." He favored her with an inviting canine smile, horribly false. She drew back slightly more.
Miles let his fists close angrily. "The most offensive thing about the man is his nerve. He might at least have picked another name for himself, but he flaunts mine. Perhaps he became used to it when he was training to be me, as he must have done once. He speaks with a Betan accent, and takes my mother's Betan