“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.”