A brief knock sounded on the hinged double doors to the hallway. At Countess Vorkosigan’s “Yes?”, they swung open partway, and a man poked his head around the frame and favored her with a strained smile.
“Is it all right for me to come in now, dear Captain?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Countess Vorkosigan.
He let himself through and closed the doors again. Mark’s throat closed; he swallowed and breathed, swallowed and breathed, with frighteningly fragile control. He would not pass out in front of this man. Or vomit. He hadn’t more than a teaspoon of bile left in his gut by now anyway. It was him, unmistakably him, Prime Minister Aral Count Aral Vorkosigan, formerly Regent of the Barrayaran Dire and de facto dictator of three worlds, conqueror of Komarr, military genius, political mastermind—accused murderer, torturer, hit man, too many impossible things to be contained in that stocky form now striding toward Mark.
Mark had studied vids of him taken at every age; perhaps it was somewhat odd that his first coherent thought was, He looks older than I expected. Count Vorkosigan was ten standard years older than his Betan wife, but he looked twenty or thirty years older. His hair was lighter shade of grey than in the vids from even two years ago. He was short for a Barrayaran, eye to eye with the Countess. His face was heavy, intense, weathered. He wore green uniform trousers but no jacket, just the cream shirt with the long sleeves rolled up and open at the round collar which, if it was an attempt at a casual look, failing utterly. The tension in the room had risen to choking levels at his entrance.
“Elena is settled,” Count Vorkosigan reported, seating himself beside the Countess. His posture was open, hands on knees, but he did not lean back comfortably. “The visit seems to be stirring up more memories than she was ready for. She’s rather disturbed.”
I’ll go talk to her in a bit,” promised the Countess.
“Good.” The Count’s eyes inventoried Mark. Puzzled? Repelled?
“Well.” The practiced diplomat whose job it was to talk three planets along the road to progress sat speechless, at a loss, as if unable to address Mark directly. He turned instead to his wife. “He passed as Miles?”
A tinge of dark amusement flashed in Countess Vorkosigan’s eyes.
He’s put on weight since then,” she said blandly.
“I see.”
The silence stretched for excruciating seconds.
Mark blurted out, “The first thing I was supposed to do when I saw you was try to kill you.”
“Yes. I know.” Count Vorkosigan settled back on the sofa, eyes on Mark’s face at last.
“They made me practice about twenty different back-up methods, could do them in my sleep, but the primary was to have been use a patch with a paralyzing toxin that left evidence on autopsy pointing to heart failure. I was to get alone with you, touch it to any part of your body I could reach. It was strangely slow, for an assassination drug.
I was to wait, in your sight, for twenty minutes while you died, and never let on that I was not Miles.”
The Count smiled grimly. “I see. A good revenge. Very artistic. It would have worked.”
“As the new Count Vorkosigan, I was then to go on and spearhead a drive for the Imperium.”
“That would have failed. Ser Galen expected it to. It was merely the chaos of its failure, during which Komarr was supposed to rise, that he desired. You were to be another Vorkosigan sacrifice then.” He actually seemed to grow more at ease, professional, discussing these grotesque plots.
“Killing you was the entire reason for my existence. Two years ago I was all primed to do it. I endured all those years of Galen for no other purpose.”
“Take heart,” advised the Countess. “Most people exist for no reason at all.”
The Count remarked, “ImpSec assembled a huge pile of documentation on you, after the plot came to light. It covers the time from when you were a mere mad gleam in Galen’s eye, to the latest addition about your disappearance from Earth two months ago. But there’s nothing in the documentation that suggests your, er, late adventure on Jackson’s Whole was some sort of latent programming along the lines of my projected assassination. Was it?” A faint doubt colored his voice.
“No,” said Mark firmly. “I’ve been programmed enough to know. It’s not something you can fail to notice. Not the way Galen did it, anyway.”
“I disagree,” said Countess Vorkosigan unexpectedly. “You were set up for it, Mark. But not by Galen.”
The Count raised his brows in startled inquiry.
“By Miles, I’m afraid,” she explained. “Quite inadvertently.”
“I don’t see it,” said the Count.
Mark felt the same way. “I was only in contact with Miles for a few days, on Earth.”
“I’m not sure you’re ready for this, but here goes. You had exactly three role models to learn how to be a human being from. The Jacksonian body-slavers, the Komarran terrorists—and Miles. You were steeped in Miles. And I’m sorry, but Miles thinks he’s a knight-errant. A rational government wouldn’t allow him possession of a pocket-knife, let alone a space fleet. And so, Mark, when you were finally forced to choose between two palpable evils and a lunatic—you upped and ran after the lunatic.”
“I think Miles does very well,” objected the Count.
“Agh.” The Countess buried her face in her hands, briefly. “Love, we are discussing a young man upon whom Barrayar laid so much unbearable stress, so much pain, he created an entire other personality escape into. He then persuaded several thousand galactic mercenararies to support his psychosis, and on top of that conned the Barrayaran Imperium into paying for it all. Admiral Naismith is one hell of a lot more than just an ImpSec cover identity, and you know it. I grant you he’s a genius, but don’t you dare try to tell me he’s sane.” She paused. “No. That’s not fair. Miles’s safety valve works. I won’t really begin to fear for his sanity till he’s cut off from the little admiral. It’s extraordinary balancing act, all in all.” She glanced at Mark. “And a nearly impossible act to follow, I should think.”
Mark had never thought of Miles as seriously crazed; he’d only thought of him as perfect. This was all highly unsettling.
“The Dendarii truly function as a covert operations arm of ImpSec,” said the Count, looking a bit unsettled himself. “Spectacularly well, occasion.”
“Of course they do. You wouldn’t let Miles keep them if they didn’t, so he makes sure of it. I merely point out that their official function is not their only function. And—if Miles ever ceases to need them, it won’t be a year before ImpSec finds reason to cut that tie. And you’ll earnestly believe you are acting perfectly logically.”
Why weren’t they blaming him … ? He mustered the courage to say it aloud. “Why aren’t you blaming me for killing Miles?”
With a glance, the Countess fielded the question to her husband, ne nodded and answered. For them both? “Illyan’s report stated Miles was shot by a Bharaputran security trooper.”
“But he wouldn’t have been in the line of fire if I hadn’t—”
Count Vorkosigan held up an interrupting hand. “If he hadn’t foolishly chosen to be. Don’t attempt to camouflage your real blame by taking more than your share. I’ve made too many lethal errors myself be fooled by that one.” He glanced at his boots. “We have also considered the long view. While your personality and persona are nearly distinct from Miles’s, any children you sire would be genetically indistinguishable. Not you, but your son, may be what Barrayar needs.”
“Only to continue the Vor system,” Countess Vorkosigan put in lightly. “A dubious goal, love. Or are you picturing yourself as a grandfatherly mentor to Mark’s theoretical children, as your father was to Miles?”
“God forbid,” muttered the Count fervently.
“Beware your own conditioning.” She turned to Mark. “The trouble . .” she looked away, looked back, “if we fail to recover Miles, at you will be facing is not just a relationship. It’s a job.
At a minimum, you’d be responsible for the welfare of a couple of million people in your District; you would be their Voice in the Council of Counts. It’s a job Miles was trained for literally from birth; I’m not sure it’s possible to send in a last-minute substitute.”
Surely not, oh, surely not.
“I don’t know,” said the Count thoughtfully. “I was such a substitute. Until I was eleven years old I was the spare, not the heir. I admit, after my older brother was murdered, the rush of events made the shift in destinies easy for me. We were all so intent on revenge, in Mad Yuri’s War. By the time I looked up and drew breath again, I’d fully assimilated the fact I would be Count someday. Though I scarcely imagined that someday would be another fifty years. It’s possible you too, Mark, could have many years to study and train. But it’s also possible my Countship could land in your lap tomorrow.”
The man was seventy-two standard years old, middle-aged for a galactic, old for harsh Barrayar. Count Aral had used himself hard; had he used himself nearly up? His father Count Piotr had lived twenty years more than that, a whole other lifetime. “Would Barrayar even accept a clone as your heir?” he asked doubtfully.
“Well, it’s past time to start developing laws one way or the other. Yours would be a major test case. With enough concentrated will, I could probably ram it down their throats—”
Mark didn’t doubt that.
“But starting a legal war is premature, till things sort themselves out with the missing cryo-chamber. For now, the public story is that Miles is away on duty, and you are visiting for the first time. All true enough. I need scarcely emphasize that the details are classified.”
Mark shook his head and nodded in agreement, feeling dizzy. “But—is this necessary? Suppose I’d never been created, and Miles was killed in the line of duty somewhere. Ivan Vorpatril would be your heir.”
“Yes,” said the Count, “and House Vorkosigan would come to an end, after eleven generations of direct descent.”
“What’s the problem with that?”
“The problem is that it is not the case. You do exist. The problem is … that I have always wanted Cordelia’s son to be my heir. Note, we’re discussing rather a lot of property, by ordinary standards.”
“I thought most of your ancestral lands glowed in the dark, after the destruction of Vorkosigan Vashnoi.”
The Count shrugged. “Some remain. This residence, for example. But my estate is not just property; as Cordelia puts it, it comes with a full-time job. If we allow your claim upon it, you must allow its claim upon you.”
“You can keep it all,” said Mark sincerely. “I’ll sign anything.”
The Count winced.
“Consider it orientation, Mark,” said the Countess. “Some of the people you may encounter will be thinking much about these questions. You simply need to be aware of the unspoken agendas.”
The Count acquired an abstracted look; he let out his breath in a long trickle. When he looked up again his face was frighteningly serious. “That’s true. And there’s one agenda that is not only unspoken, unspeakable. You must be warned.”
So unspeakable Count Vorkosigan was having trouble spitting it out self, apparently. “What now?” asked Mark warily.
“There is a … false theory of descent, one of six possible lines, puts me next in line to inherit the Barrayaran Imperium, should Emperor Gregor die without issue.”
“Cripes,” said Mark impatiently, “of course I knew. Galen’s plot turned exploiting that legal argument. You, then Miles, then Ivan.”
“Well now it’s me, then Miles, then you, then Ivan. And Miles technically—dead at the moment. That leaves only me between and being targeted. Not as an imitation Miles, but in your own right.”
“That’s rubbish” exploded Mark. “That’s even crazier than the idea of my becoming Count Vorkosigan!”
“Hold that thought,” advised the Countess. “Hold it hard, and never even hint that you could think otherwise.”
I am fallen among madmen.
“If anyone approaches you with a conversation on the subject, report it to me, Cordelia, or Simon Illyan as soon as possible,” the Count added.
Mark had retreated as far back into his chair as he could go. “All right …”
“You’re scaring him, dear,” the Countess remarked.
“On that topic, paranoia is the key to good health,” said the Count carefully. He watched Mark silently for a moment. “You look tired. I’ll show you to your room. You can wash up and rest a bit.”
They all rose. Mark followed them out to the paved hallway. The Countess nodded to an archway leading straight back under the arched stairway. “I’m going to take the lift tube up and see Elena.”
“Right,” the Count agreed. Mark perforce followed him up the steps. Two flights let him know how out of shape he was. By the time they reached the second landing he was breathing as heavily as old man. The Count turned down a third floor hallway.
Mark asked in some dread, “You’re not putting me in Miles’s room, are you?”
“No. Though the one you’re getting was mine, once, when I was a child.” Before the death of his older brother, presumably. The second son’s room. That was almost as unnerving.
“It’s just a guest room, now.” The Count swung open another blank wooden door on hinges. Beyond it lay a sunny chamber. Obviously hand-made wooden furniture of uncertain age and enormous value included a bed and chests; a domestic console to control lighting and the mechanized windows sat incongruously beside the carved headboard.
Mark glanced back, and collided with the Count’s deeply questioning stare. It was a thousand times worse than even the Dendarii’s I-love-Naismith look. He clenched his hands to his head, and grated, “Miles isn’t in here!”
“I know,” said the Count quietly. “I was looking for … myself, I suppose. And Cordelia. And you.”
Uncomfortably compelled, Mark looked for himself in the Count, reciprocally. He wasn’t sure. Hair color, formerly; he and Miles shared the same dark hair he had seen on vids of the younger Admiral Vorkosigan. Intellectually, he’d known Aral Vorkosigan was the old General Count Piotr Vorkosigan’s younger son, but that lost older brother had been dead for sixty years. He was astonished the present Count remembered with such immediacy, or made of it a connection with himself. Strange, and frightening. I was to kill this man. I still could. He’s not guarding himself at all.
“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.�
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“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 like 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.”
Mirror Dance b-9 Page 21