“Justifiable,” Quinn corrected dryly.
“Whatever.”
“If Barrayar—as you have often claimed—would not accept you as Emperor because of suspicion of mutation, I should think it’d go into spasms at the thought of your clone installed in the Imperial Residence,” said Baz. “Twin brother,” he amended hastily as Miles opened his mouth.
“It doesn’t require the probability of success at gaining the Imperium to make the possibility of an attempt to do so into an ImpSec problem.” Miles snorted. “It’s funny. All the time the Komarrans thought of their faux-Miles as an imposter-claimant. I don’t think either they or Mark realized they’d made a real claimant. Well, I’d have to be dead first anyway, so from my point of view the question is moot.” He rapped the table and rose. “Let’s get moving, people.”
On the way out the door, Elena lowered her voice to ask him, “Miles—did your mother see those horrific investigation-reports of Illyan’s about Mark, too?”
He smiled bleakly. “Who d’you think ordered them done?”
Chapter Five
He began donning the half-armor. First, next to his skin, a piece of the hottest new technology on the market: a nerve-disrupter shield-net. The field-generating net was worked into the fabric of a close-fitting grey body-suit and a hood that protected skull, neck, and forehead, leaving only his eyes, nose, and mouth peeping from the hole. And so the threat of one of the most fearsome anti-personnel weapons, the brain-killing nerve disrupter, was rendered null. As an added bonus, the suit stopped stunner-fire, too. Trust Naismith to have the best and newest, and custom-made to fit … was the elastic fabric supposed to be this bloody tight?
Over the net-suit went a flexible torso-armor that would stop any projectile up to small hand-missiles and down to deadly needier spines. Fortunately for his ability to breathe, its catches were adjustable. He let them out to their fullest extension, rendering the valuable protection merely comfortably and correctly snug. Over it went blessedly loose camouflage-grey fatigues, made of a combat-rated fabric that would neither melt nor burn. Then came belts and bandoliers with stunner, nerve disrupter, plasma arc, grenades, power cells, a rappel-harness and spool, emergency oxygen. On his back he shrugged the harness holding a neat, flat power pack that generated, at the first touch of enemy fire, a one-man-sized plasma arc mirror field, with so miniscule a time lag one barely had time to cook, much. It was good for absorbing thirty or forty direct hits before the power cell, and its porter, died. It seemed almost a misnomer to call it all half-armor: triple armor was more like it.
Over the nerve-disruptor net covering his feet he pulled thick socks, then Naismith’s combat boots. At least the boots fit without any embarrassing adjustments. A mere week of inactivity, and his body fought him, thickening … Naismith was a damned anorectic, that was it. A hyperactive anorectic. He straightened. Properly distributed, the formidible array of equipment was surprisingly light.
On the countertop next to his cabin comconsole, the command helmet sat waiting. The empty shadow beneath its forehead flange made him think, for whatever morbid reason, of an empty skull. He raised the helmet in his hands, and turned it in the light, and stared hungrily at its elegant curves. His hands could control one weapon, two at most. This, through the people it commanded, controlled dozens; potentially, hundreds or even thousands. This was Naismith’s real power.
The cabin buzzer blatted; he jumped, nearly dropping the helmet. He could have pitched it against the wall and not harmed it, but still he set it down carefully.
“Miles?” came Captain Thorne’s voice on the intercom. “You about ready?”
“Yes, come in.” He touched the keypad to release the door lock.
Thorne entered, attired identically to himself, but with hood temporarily pushed back. The formless fatigues rendered Thorne not bi-sexed, but neuter, a genderless thing, a soldier. Thorne too bore a command helmet under its arm, of a slightly older and different make.
Thorne walked around him, eyes flicking over every weapon and belt-hook, and checking the readouts of his plasma-shield pack. “Good.” Did Captain Thorne normally inspect its Admiral before combat? Was Naismith in the habit of wandering into battle with his boots unfastened, or something? Thorne nodded to the command helmet sitting on the countertop. “That’s quite a machine. Sure you can handle it?”
The helmet appeared new, but not that new. He doubted Naismith supplied himself with used military surplus for his personal use, regardless of what economies he practiced in the fleet at large. “Why not?” he shrugged. “I have before.”
“These things,” Thorne lifted his own, “can be pretty overwhelming at first. It’s not a data flow, it’s a damn data flood. You have to learn to ignore everything you don’t need, otherwise it can be almost better to switch the thing off. You, now …” Thorne hesitated, “have that same uncanny ability as old Tung did, of appearing to ignore everything as it goes by, and yet being able to remember and yank it out instantly if it’s needed. Of somehow always being on the right channel at the right time. It’s like your mind works on two levels. Your command-response time is incredibly fast, when your adrenalin is up. It’s kind of addictive. People who work with you a lot come to expect—and rely—on it.” Thorne stopped, waited.
What was it expecting him to say? He shrugged again. “I do my best.”
“If you’re still feeling ill, you know, you can delegate this whole raid to me.”
“Do I look ill?”
“You’re not yourself. You don’t want to make the whole squad sick.” Thorne seemed tense, almost urgent.
“I’m fine, now, Bel. Back off!”
“Yes, sir,” Thorne sighed.
“Is everything ready out there?”
“The shuttle is fueled and armed. Green Squad is kitted up, and is doing the final loading right now. We have it timed so we come into parking orbit just at midnight, downside at Bharaputra’s main medical facility. We drop instantly, no waiting around for people to start asking questions. Hit and go. The whole operation should be over in an hour, if things run to plan.”
“Good.” His heart was beating faster. He disguised a deep breath in a strung-out sigh. “Let’s go.”
“Let’s … do our helmet communication checks first, huh?” said Thorne.
That was a good idea, here in the quiet cabin, rather than in the noise and excitement and tension of the drop shuttle. “All right,” he said, and added slyly, “Take your time.”
There were over a hundred channels in use in the command headset, even for this limited raid. In addition to direct voice contact with the Ariel, Thorne, and every trooper, there were battle computers on the ship, in the shuttle, and in the helmet itself. There were telemetry readouts of every sort, weapon power checks, logistics updates. All the troopers’ helmets had vid pick-ups so he could see what they were seeing in infra-red, visual, and UV bands; full sound; their medical readouts; holovid map displays. The holomap of the clone-creche had been specially programmed in, and the plan of attack and several contingencies pre-loaded. There were channels to be dedicated, on the fly, to eavesdropping upon enemy telemetry. Thorne already had Bharaputra’s security guards’ comm links locked in. They could even pick up commercial entertainment broadcasts from the planet they were approaching. Tinny music filled the air momentarily as he switched past those channels.
They finished, and he found himself and Thorne staring at each other in an awkward silence. Thorne was hollow-faced, apprehensive, as if struggling with some suppressed emotion. Guilt? Strange perception, surely not. Thorne couldn’t be on to him, or it would have called a halt to this whole operation.
“Pre-combat nerves, Bel?” he said lightly. “I thought you loved your work.”
Thorne came out of its lip-sucking abstraction with a start. “Oh, I do.” It took a breath. “Let’s do it.”
“Go!” he agreed, and led the way at last out of his isolated cabin-cave into the light of the corridor and the people
d reality his actions— his actions—had created.
The shuttle-hatch corridor resembled his first view of it, reversed; the hulking Dendarii commandos were filing out, not spilling in. They seemed quieter this time, not as much clowning and joking. More businesslike. They had names, now, too, all filed in his command headset, which would keep them straight for him. All wore some variety of half-armor and helmet, with an array of heavier equipment in addition to such hand-weapons as he bore.
He found himself looking at the monster sergeant with new eyes, now that he knew her history. The log had said she was only nineteen years old, though she looked older; she’d been only sixteen, four years ago when Naismith had stolen her away from House Ryoval. He squinted, trying to see her as a girl. He had been taken away at age fourteen, eight years ago. Their mutual time as genetic products and prisoners of House Bharaputra must have overlapped, though he had never met her. The genetic engineering research labs were in a different town from the main surgical facility. House Bharaputra was a vast organization, in its strange Jacksonian way almost a little government. Except Jackson’s Whole didn’t have governments.
Eight years … No one you knew then is still alive. You know that, don’t you?
If I can’t do what I want, I’ll at least do what I can.
He stepped up to her. “Sergeant Taura—” she turned, and his brows climbed in startlement. “What is that around your neck?” Actually, he could see what it was, a large fluffy pink bow. He supposed his real question was, why was it around her neck?
She—smiled, he guessed that repellent grimace was, at him, and fluffed it out a bit more with a huge clawed hand. Her claw-polish was bright pink, tonight. “D’you think it’ll work? I wanted something to not scare the kids.”
He looked up at eight feet of half-armor, camouflage cloth, boots, bandoliers, muscle and fang. Somehow, I don’t think it’ll be enough, Sergeant. “It’s … certainly worth a try,” he choked. So, she was conscious of her extraordinary appearance… . Fool! How could she not be? Are you not conscious of yours? He was almost sorry now he had not ventured out of his cabin earlier in the voyage, and made her acquaintance. My home-town girl.
“What does it feel like, to be going back?” he asked suddenly; a nod in no particular direction indicated the House Bharaputra drop-zone, coming up.
“Strange,” she admitted, her thick brows drawing down.
“Do you know this landing-site? Ever been there before?”
“Not that medical complex. I hardly ever left the genetics facility, except for a couple of years that I lived with hired fosterers, which was in the same town.” Her head turned, her voice dropped an octave, and she barked an order about loading equipment at one of her men, who gave a half-wave and hustled to obey. She turned back to him and her voice re-softened to conscious, careful lightness. In no other way did she display any inappropriate intimacy while on duty; it seemed she and Naismith were discreet lovers, if lovers they were. The discreetness relieved him. She added, “I didn’t get out much.”
His own voice lowered. “Do you hate them?” As 1 do? A different kind of intimate question.
Her outslung lips twisted in thought. “I suppose … I was terribly manipulated by them when I was growing up, but it didn’t seem like abuse to me at the time. There were a lot of uncomfortable tests, but, it was all science … there wasn’t any intent to hurt in it. It didn’t really hurt till they sold me to Ryoval’s, after the super-soldier project was cancelled. What Ryoval’s wanted to do to me was grotesque, but that was just the nature of Ryoval’s. It was Bharaputra … Bharaputra that didn’t care. That threw me away. That hurt. But then you came …” She brightened. “A knight in shining armor and all that.”
A familiar, surly wave of resentment washed over him. Bugger the knight in shining armor, and the horse he rode in on. And, I can rescue people too, dammit! She was looking away, fortunately, and didn’t catch the spasm of anger in his face. Or perhaps she took it for anger at their former tormentors.
“But for all that,” she murmured, “I would not have even existed, without House Bharaputra. They made me. I am alive, for however long … shall I return death for life?” Her strange distorted face grew deeply introspective.
This was not the ideal gung-ho frame of mind to inculcate in a commando on a drop mission, he realized belatedly. “Not … necessarily. We’re here to rescue clones, not kill Bharaputran employees. We kill only if forced to, eh?”
This was good Naismithery; her head came up, and she grinned at him. “I’m so relieved you’re feeling better. I was terribly worried. I wanted to see you, but Captain Thorne wouldn’t allow it.” Her eyes warmed like bright yellow flames.
“Yes, I was … very ill. Thorne did right. But … maybe we can talk more on the way home.” When this was over. When he’d earned the right … earned the right to what?
“You got a date, Admiral.” She winked at him, and straightened, ferociously joyous. What have I promised? She bounded forward, happily sergeantly again, to oversee her squad.
He followed her into the combat-drop shuttle. The light level was much lower in here, the air colder, and, of course, there was no gravity. He floated forward from hand-grip to hand-grip after Captain Thorne, mentally dividing up the floor space for his intended cargo. Twelve or fifteen rows of kids seated four across … there was plenty of room. This shuttle was equipped to carry two squads, plus armored hovercars or a whole field hospital. It had a first-aid station at the back, including four fold-down bunks and a portable emergency cryo-chamber. The Dendarii commando-medic was rapidly organizing his area and battening down his supplies. Everything was being fastened down, by quietly-moving fatigue-clad soldiers, with very little fuss or conversation. A place for everything and everything in its place.
The shuttle pilot was at his post. Thorne took the co-pilot’s seat. He took a communication station chair just behind them. Out the front window he could see distant hard-edged stars, nearby the winking colored lights of some human activity, and, at the very edge of the field of view, the bright slice of the planet’s curvature. Almost home. His belly fluttered, and not just from zero-gee. Bands of tightness throbbed around his head beneath his helmet-straps.
The pilot hit his intercom. “Gimme a body-check back there, Taura. We’ve got a five-minute thrust to match orbit, then we blow bolts and drop.”
After a moment Sergeant Taura’s voice returned, “Check. All troops tied down, hatch sealed. We are ready. Go-repeat-go.”
Thorne glanced over its shoulder, and pointed. Hastily, he fastened his seat straps, and just in time. The straps bit deeply, and he lurched from side to side as the Ariel shuddered into its parking orbit, accelerative effects that would have been compensated for and nullified by the artificial gravity generated between the decks of the larger ship.
The pilot poised his hands, and abruptly dropped them, as if he were a musician playing some crescendo. Loud, startling clanks reverberated through the fuselage. Ululating whoops keened in response from the compartment behind the flight deck.
When they say drop, he thought wildly, they mean it. Stars and the planet turned, nauseatingly, in the forward window. He closed his eyes; his stomach tried to climb his esophagus. He suddenly realized a hidden advantage to full space armor. If you shit yourself with terror, going down, the suit’s plumbing would take care of it, and no one would ever know.
Air began to scream over the outer hull as they hit the ionosphere. His seat straps tried to slice him like an egg. “Fun, huh?” yelled Thorne, grinning like a loon, its face distorted and lips flapping with deceleration. They were pointed straight down, or so the shuttle’s nose was aimed, although his seat was attempting to eject him into the cabin ceiling with neck-breaking and skull-smashing force.
“I sure hope there’s nothing in our way,” the pilot yelled cheerfully. “This hasn’t been cleared with anybody’s flight control, y’know!”
He pictured a mid-air collision with a large commer
cial passenger shuttle … five hundred women and children aboard … vast yellow and black explosions and arcing bodies… .
They crossed the terminator into twilight. Then darkness, whipping clouds … bigger clouds … shuttle vibrating and bellowing like an insane tuba … still pointed straight down, he swore, though how the pilot could tell in this screaming fog he did not know.
Then, suddenly, they were level as an airshuttle, clouds above, lights of a town like jewels spilled on a carpet below. An airshuttle that was dropping like a rock. His spine began to compress, harder, harder. More hideous clanks, as the shuttle’s feet extended. An array of half-lit building bulked below. A darkened playing-court— Shit, that’s it, that’s it! The buildings loomed up beside them, above them. Thud-crunch-crunch. A solid, six-legged landing. The silence stunned him.
“All right, let’s go!” Thorne swung up out of its seat, face flushed, eyes lit, with blood-lust or fear or both he could not tell.
He tramped down the ramp in the wake of a dozen Dendarii. His eyes were about half dark-adapted, and there were enough lights around the complex, diffused by the cool and misty midnight air, that he had no trouble seeing, though the view was drained of color. The shadows were black and sinister. Sergeant Taura, with silent hand signals, divided her squad. No one was making noise. Silent faces were gilded by brief staccato flashes of light as their helmet vids supplied some data bit or another, projected to the side of their vision. One Dendarii, with extra ’scopes on her helmet, rolled out a personal float-bike, mounted it, and rose quietly into the darkness. Air cover.
Mirror Dance b-9 Page 8