"Right. And he never returned to the house after that?"
"Abandoned everything, apparently. He's had previous experience evading security, I take it."
"He was an expert before I was born," sighed Miles. "What about the two guards?"
"They were still at the house when the surveillance guys from the Barrayaran embassy arrived and took over and we packed our kit and went home. Have the Barrayarans paid us for this little job yet, by the way?"
"Handsomely."
"Oh, good. I was afraid they'd hold it up till after we'd delivered Van der Poole too."
"About Van der Poole—Galen," said Miles. "Ah—we're no longer working for the Barrayarans on that one. They've brought in their own team from their Sector headquarters on Tau Ceti."
Throne frowned puzzlement. "But we're still working?"
"For the time being. But you'd better pass the word along to our downside people. From this point on, contact with the Barrayarans is to be avoided."
Thorne's brows rose. "Who are we working for, then?"
"For me."
Thorne paused. "Aren't you playing this one a tad close to your chest, sir?"
"Much too close, if my own Intelligence people are to remain effective." Miles sighed. "All right. An odd and unexpected personal wrinkle has turned up in the middle of this case. Have you ever wondered why I never speak of my family background, or my past?"
"Well—there are a lot of Dendarii who don't. Sir."
"Quite. I was born a clone, Bel."
Thorne looked only mildly sympathetic. "Some of my best friends are clones."
"Perhaps I should say, I was created a clone. In the military laboratory of a galactic power that shall remain nameless. I was created for a covert substitution plot against the son of a certain important man, key of another galactic power—you can figure out who with a very little research, I'm sure—but about seven years ago I declined the honor. I escaped, fled, and set up on my own, creating the Dendarii Mercenaries from, er, materials found ready to hand."
Thorne grinned. "A memorable event."
"But this is where Galen comes in. The galactic power abandoned their plot, and I thought I was free of my unhappy past. But several clones had been run off, so to speak, in the attempt to generate an exact physical duplicate, with certain mental refinements, before the lab finally came up with me. I thought they were all long dead, callously murdered, disposed of. But apparently, one of the earlier, less-successful efforts had been put into cryo-suspension. And somehow, he has fallen into Ser Galen's hands. My sole surviving clone-brother, Bel." Miles's hand closed in a fist. "Enslaved by a fanatic. I want to rescue him." His hand opened pleadingly. "Can you understand why?"
Thorne blinked. "Knowing you … I guess I do. Is it very important to you, sir?"
"Very."
Thorne straightened slightly. "Then it will be done."
"Thank you." Miles hesitated. "Better have all our downside patrol leaders issued a small medical scanner. Keep it on themselves at all times. As you know, I had my leg bones replaced with synthetics a bit over a year ago. His are normal bone. It's the quickest way to tell the difference between us."
"Your appearance is that close?" said Thorne.
"Our appearances are identical, apparently."
"They are," confirmed Quinn to Thorne. "I've seen him."
"I … see. Interesting possibilities for confusion there, sir." Thorne glanced at Quinn, who nodded ruefully.
"Too right. I trust the dissemination of the medical scanners will help keep things dull. Carry on—call me at once if you get a break in the case."
"Right, sir."
In the corridor, Quinn remarked, "Nice save, sir."
Miles sighed. "I had to find some way to warn the Dendarii about Mark. Can't have him playing Admiral Naismith again unimpeded."
"Mark?" said Elli. "Who's Mark, or dare I guess? Miles Mark Two?"
"Lord Mark Pierre Vorkosigan," said Miles calmly. Anyway, he hoped he appeared calm. "My brother."
Elli, alive to the significances of Barrayaran clan claims, frowned, "Is Ivan right, Miles? Has that little sucker hypnotized you?"
"I don't know," said Miles slowly. "If I'm the only one who sees him that way, then maybe, just maybe—"
Elli made an encouraging noise.
A slight smile turned one corner of Miles's mouth. "Then maybe everybody's wrong but me."
Elli snorted.
Miles turned serious again. "I truly don't know. In seven years, I never abused the powers of Admiral Naismith for personal purposes. That's not a record I'm anxious to break. Well, perhaps we'll fail to turn them up, and the question will become moot."
"Wishful thinking," said Elli disapprovingly. "If you don't want to turn them up, maybe you'd better stop looking for them."
"Compelling logic."
"So why aren't you compelled? And what do you plan to do with them if you do catch 'em?"
"As for what," said Miles, "it's not too complicated. I want to find Galen and my clone before Destang does, and separate them. And then make sure Destang doesn't find them until I can send a private report home. Eventually, if I vouch for him, I believe a cease-and-desist order will come through countermanding my clone's assassination, without my having to appear directly connected with it."
"What about Galen?" asked Elli skeptically. "No way are you going to get a cease-and-desist order on him."
"Probably not. Galen is—a problem I have not solved."
Miles returned to his cabin, where his fleet accountant caught up with him.
Lieutenant Bone fell on the eighteen-million-mark credit chit with heartfelt and unmilitary glee. "Saved!"
"Disburse it as needed," Miles said. "And get the Triumph out of hock. We need to be able to move out at a moment's notice without having to argue about grand theft with the Solar Navy. Ah—hm. D'you think you can create a credit chit, out of petty cash or wherever, in galactic funds, that couldn't in any way be traced back to us?"
A gleam lit her eye. "An interesting challenge, sir. Does this have anything to do with our upcoming contract?"
"Security, Lieutenant," Miles said blandly. "I can't discuss it even with you."
"Security," she sniffed, "doesn't hide as much from Accounting as they think they do."
"Perhaps I should combine your departments. No?" He grinned at her horrified look. "Well, maybe not."
"Who does this chit go to?"
"To the bearer."
Her brows rose. "Very good, sir. How much?"
Miles hesitated. "Half a million marks. However that translates into local credit."
"Half a million marks," she noted wryly, "is not petty."
"Just so long as it's cash."
"I'll do my best, sir."
He sat alone in his cabin after she left, frowning deeply. The impasse was clear. Galen could not be expected to initiate contact unless he saw some way, not to mention some reason, to control the situation or achieve surprise. Letting Galen choreograph his moves seemed fatal, and Miles did not care for the idea of wandering around till Galen chose to surprise him. Still, some sort of feint to create an opening might be better than no move at all, in view of the shrinking time limit. Get off the damn defensive disadvantage, act instead of react… A high resolve, but for the minor flaw that until Galen was spotted Miles had no object to act upon. He growled frustration and went wearily to bed.
He woke on his own in the dark of his cabin some twelve hours later, noted the time on the glowing digits of his wall clock, and lay a while luxuriating in the remarkable sensation of finally having gotten enough sleep. His greedy body was just suggesting, in the leaden slowness of his limbs, that more would be nice, when his cabin comconsole chimed. Saved from the sin of sloth, he staggered out of bed and answered it.