Mirror Dance

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, Baron,” said the technician, “but your torture victim appears to be having a wonderful time.”

Gorge grinned around the tube gagging his mouth as Baron Ryoval walked around him and stared. Admiring his amazing stomach, perhaps.

“There are a number of possible psychological defenses in these situations,” Ryoval said. “Split personalities and identification with the captor included. I expected Naismith to work through them all, eventually, but—so soon?”

“I didn’t believe it either, sir, so I took a series of brain scans. The results were unusual.”

“If his personality is indeed splitting, it should show up on the scan.”

“Something shows up on the scan. He seems to be shielding portions of his mind from our stimuli, and his surface responses certainly suggest a split, but … the pattern is abnormally abnormal, if that makes sense, sir.”

“Not really.” Ryoval pursed his lips with interest. “I’ll take a look at them.”

“Whatever is going on, he’s not faking it. That I am sure of.”

“So impossibly fast …” murmured Ryoval. “When do you think he snapped? How could I have missed it?”

“I’m not sure. Early. The first day—maybe the first hour. But if he keeps it up, he’s going to be very elusive, to bring much force to bear upon. He can keep … changing shifts.”

“So can I,” stated Ryoval coldly.

The pressure in his stomach was growing into pain. Howl prodded anxiously, but Gorge would not give way. It was still his turn. The Other listened attentively. The fourth one always listened, when Baron Ryoval was present. Rarely slept, almost never spoke.

“I didn’t expect him to reach this stage of disintegration for months. It throws off my time-table,” the Baron complained.

Yes, Baron. Aren’t we fascinating? Don’t we intrigue you?

“I must consider how best to re-focus him,” Ryoval mused. “Bring him to my quarters later. I’ll see what a little quiet conversation and a few experiments will yield, in the way of new directions.”

Beneath his flattened affect, the Other shivered in anticipation.

Two guards delivered him/them to Baron Ryoval’s pleasant living room. There were no windows, though a large holovid display took up most of one wall, presently running a view of some tropical beach. But Ryoval’s quarters were surely underground. Nobody would break through windows here.

His skin was still patchy. The techs had sprayed the raw areas with some kind of coating, to keep him from oozing on Ryoval’s fine furniture, and dressed the other wounds with plastic bandage, so they wouldn’t break open and bleed and stain.

“Think this’ll do any good?” the tech with the sprayer had asked.

“Probably not,” his comrade had sighed. “I suppose I’d better go ahead and put a cleaning crew on call. Wish he’d put down a tarp or something.”

The guards sat him now in a low, wide chair. It was just a chair, no spikes or razors or impalements. His hands were fastened behind him, which meant he could not settle back. He spread his knees and sat uncomfortably upright, panting.

The senior guard asked Ryoval, “Do you wish us to secure him, sir?”

Ryoval raised an eyebrow. “Can he stand up without help?”

“Not readily, from that position.”

Ryoval’s lips crooked up in amused contempt, as he gazed down at his prisoner. “Ah, we’re getting there. Slowly. Leave us. I’ll call you. Don’t interrupt. It may become noisy.”

“Your soundproofing is very effective, sir.” The flat-faced guards saluted and withdrew. There was something wrong with those guards. When not following orders, they tended to just sit, or stand, wordless and blank. Constructed that way, no doubt.

Gorge and Grunt and Howl and the Other stared around with interest, wondering whose turn it was going to be next.

You just had your turn, said Howl to Gorge. It’ll be me.

Don’t bet on it, said Grunt. Could be me.

If it weren’t for Gorge, said the Other, grimly, I’d take my turn right now. Now I have to wait.

You’ve never taken a turn, said Gorge curiously. But the Other was silent again.

“Let’s watch a show,” said Ryoval, and pouched a remote. The tropic display changed to a life-sized vid recording of one of Grunt’s sessions with the … creatures, from the bordello. Grunt watched himself with great interest and delight, from all these new angles. Gorge’s work was gradually threatening to put many interesting events out of sight, below his equator.

“I am thinking of sending a copy of this to the Dendarii mercenary fleet,” Ryoval murmured, watching him. “Imagine all your senior staff officers, viewing this. I think it would fetch a few to me, no?”

No. Ryoval was lying. His presence here was still secret, or he wouldn’t be present here. And Ryoval could be in no rush to give that secret away. The Other muttered dryly, Send a copy to Simon Illyan, why don’t you, and see what that fetches you. But Illyan belonged to Lord Mark, and Mark wasn’t here, and anyway, the Other never, ever, ever spoke aloud.

“Imagine that pretty bodyguard of yours, joining you here …” Ryoval went on, in detail. Grunt was perfectly willing to imagine some parts of it, though other parts offended even him. Howl?

Not me! said Howl. That’s not my job.

We’ll just have to make a new recruit, they all said. He could make a thousand of them, at need. He was an army, flowing like water, parting around obstacles, impossible to destroy with any one cut.

The vid display changed to one of Howl’s finest moments, the one which had given him his name. Shortly after he’d been chemically skinned, the techs had painted sticky stuff on him that made him itch unbearably. The techs hadn’t had to touch him. He’d almost killed himself. They’d given him a transfusion afterwards, to replace the blood lost in the raking wounds.

He stared impassively at the convulsing creature in the vid. The show that Ryoval wanted to see was himself. Looking at him right now must have all the drama and excitement of watching a test-pattern. Boring. Ryoval looked like he wanted to aim the remote at him, and switch programs.

The Other waited with growing impatience. He was beginning to get his breath back, but there was still the damned low chair to contend with. It had to be tonight. By the next opportunity, if any ever came, Gorge might have immobilized them all. Yes. He waited.

Ryoval’s lips puffed with disappointment, watching his serene profile. He shut the vid off and rose, and walked around the chair, studying him through narrowed eyes. “You’re not even with me, are you? You’ve gone up around some bend. I must think what will bring you back to me. Or should I say, you all.” Ryoval was much too perceptive.

I don’t trust you, said Gorge to the Other, doubtfully. What will happen to me, after?

And me, added Grunt. Only Howl said nothing. Howl was very tired.

I promise Mark will still feed you, Gorge, the Other whispered, from deep inside. At least now and then. And Grunt. Mark could take you to Beta Colony. There are people there who could help you clean up enough to come out in the daylight, I think. You wouldn’t need Ryoval’s hypospray. Poor Howl is all exhausted anyway, he’s worked the hardest, covering for the rest of you lot. Anyway, Grunt, what if Ryoval decides on castration next? Maybe you and Howl can get together, and Mark could rent you a squad of beautiful women— wouldn’t women be a lovely change?—with whips and chains. This is Jackson’s Whole, I bet you could find some in the vid directory. You don’t need Ryoval. We save Mark, and he’ll save us. I promise.

Who are you, to pledge Mark’s word? said Gorge grumpily.

I am the closest to him.

You’ve certainly hidden out the best, said Howl, with a hint of resentment.

It was necessary. But we will all perish, one by one, as Ryoval hunts us down. He’s terribly sharp. We are the originals. The new recruits would only be distorted shadows of us anyway.

This was true, they all could see.

“I’m bringing you a friend to play with,” Ryoval commented, walking around him. Having Ryoval behind him had some odd effects on his internal topography. Gorge flattened, Howl emerged, then sank again as Ryoval came back in view. Grunt watched alertly for his cues, rocking just slightly. “Your clone-twin. The one my stupid squad failed to take along.”

Deep down inside, Lord Mark came wide awake, screaming. The Other smothered him up. He lies. He lies.

“Their fumble proved to be a costly error, for which they will pay. Your double vanished, then somehow turned up with Vasa Luigi. A typically smooth bit of sleight of hand on Vasa’s part. I’m still not convinced dear Lotus doesn’t have a private line of some kind into the Durona Group.”

Ryoval circled him again. It was very disorienting. “Vasa is quite convinced his twin is the Admiral, and you are the clone. He has infected me with his doubts, though if as he claims the man is indeed cryo-amnesic, it could prove most disappointing even if he’s right. But it doesn’t matter now. I have you both. Just as I predicted. Can you guess what is the first thing I shall have you two do to each other?”

Grunt could. Spot-on, though not with the whispered refinements Ryoval added.

Lord Mark raged, wept with terror and dismay. Not a vibration rippled Grunt’s slack-mouthed surface, nor marred the flat glisten of his eyes with any inner purpose. Wait, begged the Other.

The Baron walked to a counter or bar, made of some zebra-grained, polished wood, and unwrapped an array of glittering tools, which no one could quite see, though Howl stretched his neck. Meditatively, Ryoval looked his kit over.

You have to stay out of my way. And not sabotage me, said the Other. I know Ryoval gives you what you hunger for—but it’s a trick.

Ryoval doesn’t feed you, said Gorge.

Ryoval is my food, whispered the Other.

You’ll only get one chance, said Howl nervously. And then they’ll come after me.

I only need one chance.

Ryoval turned back. A surgical hand-tractor gleamed in his grip. Grunt, frightened, gave way to the Other.

“I believe,” said Ryoval, “that I will pull out one of your eyes, next. Just one. That should have some interesting psychological focusing effects, when I threaten the remaining one.”

Smoothly, Howl gave way. Last of all, reluctantly, Gorge gave way, as Ryoval walked toward them.

Killer’s first attempt to struggle to his feet failed, and he fell back. Damn you, Gorge. He tried again, shifted his weight forward, heaved up, stepped once, half-unbalanced without the use of his arms to save himself. Ryoval watched, highly amused, unalarmed by the waddling little monster he doubtless thought he had created.

Trying to work around Gorge’s new belly was something like being the Blind Zen Archer. But his alignment was absolute.

His first kick took Ryoval in the crotch. This folded him neatly over, and put his upper body within practical range. He flowed instantly into the second kick, striking Ryoval squarely in the throat. He could feel cartilage and tissue crunch all the way back to Ryoval’s spine. Since he was not wearing steel-capped boots this time, it also broke several of his toes, smashed up and down at right angles. He felt no pain. That was Howl’s job.

He fell over. Getting up again wasn’t easy, with his hands still shackled behind him. Wallowing around on the floor trying to get his legs under himself, he saw with disappointment that Ryoval wasn’t dead yet. The man writhed and gurgled and clutched his throat, on the carpet next to him. But the room’s computer control did not recognize the Baron’s voice commands now. They had a little time yet.

He rolled near to Ryoval’s ear. “I am too a Vorkosigan. The one who was trained as a deep-penetration mole and assassin. It really pisses me off when people underestimate me, y’know?”

He managed to get back on his feet, and studied the problem, which was, Ryoval was still alive. He sighed, swallowed, stepped forward, and pounded the man with repeated blows of his feet till Ryoval stopped vomiting blood, convulsing, and breathing. It was a nauseating process, but in all, he was very relieved that there seemed no part of himself who actually enjoyed it. Even Killer had to muster a determined professionalism, to see it through to the end.

He considered the Other, whom he now recognized as Killer. Galen made you, mostly, didn’t he?

Yes. But he didn’t make me out of nothing.

You did very well. Hiding out. Stalking. I’d wondered if any of us possessed any sense of timing at all. I’m glad at least one of us does.

It was what the Count our Father said, Killer admitted, pleased and embarrassed to be praised. That people would give themselves to you, if you waited them out, and didn’t rush to give yourself to them. And I did. And Ryoval did. He added shyly, The Count’s a killer too, you know. Like me.

Hm.

He pulled his wrists against the shackles, and limped over to the zebra-wood counter to study Ryoval’s kit. The selection included a laser-drill, as well as a sickening assortment of knives, scalpels, tongs, and probes. The drill was a short-focal-range surgical type suitable for cutting bone, a dubious weapon, but a most suitable tool.

He wobbled around and tried to pick it up, behind his back. He almost wept when he dropped it. He was going to have to get down on the floor again. Awkwardly, he did so, and lumbered around till he managed to grub up the drill. It took many minutes of fiddling, but at last he got it turned around and aimed in such a way as to cut through his shackles without either slicing his hand off, or burning himself in the butt. Released, he flung his arms around his swollen torso, and rocked himself like someone rocking a weary child. His foot was starting to throb. The assorted mass vectors had apparently also combined to wrench his back, when he’d kicked Ryoval in the throat.

He stared, aside, at his victim/tormentor/prey. Clone-consumer. He felt apologetic toward the body he had pummeled underfoot. It wasn’t your fault. You died, what, ten years ago? It was the one up top, inside the skull, who had been his enemy.

An illogical fear possessed him that Ryoval’s guards would break in, and save their master even in death. He crawled over, much easier now that he had his hands free, took the laser-drill, and made certain that no one would be transplanting that brain again, ever. No one, no way.

He sagged back into the low chair, and sat in utter exhaustion, waiting to die. Ryoval’s men surely had orders to avenge their fallen lord.

No one came.

… Right. The boss had locked himself in his quarters with a prisoner and a surgical kit, and told his goons not to bother him. How long before one worked up the courage to interrupt his little hobby? Could be … quite a long time.

The weight of hope returning was an almost intolerable burden, like walking on a broken bone. I don’t want to move. He was very angry with ImpSec for abandoning him here, but thought he might forgive them everything if only they would charge in now, and waft him away without any further exertion or effort on his part. Haven’t I earned a break? The room grew very silent.

That was over-kill, he thought, staring down at Ryoval’s body. A trifle unbalanced, that. And you’ve made a mess on the carpet.

I don’t know what to do next.

Who was speaking? Killer? Gorge, Grunt? Howl? All of them?

You’re good troops, and loyal, but not too bright.

Bright is not our job.

It was time for Lord Mark to wake up. Had he ever really been asleep?

“All right, gang,” he muttered aloud, enfolding himself. “Everybody up.” The low chair was a torture-device in its own right. Ryoval’s last snide dig. With a groan, he regained his feet.

It was impossible that an old fox like Ryoval would have only one entrance to his den. He poked around the underground suite. Office, living room, small kitchen, big bedroom, and a rather oddly equipped bathroom. He gazed longingly at the shower. He had not been allowed to bathe since he’d been brought here. But he was afraid it might wash off the plastic skin. He did brush his teeth. His gums were bleeding, but that was all right. He drank a little cold water. At least I’m not hungry. He vented a small cackle.

He found the emergency exit at last in the back of the bedroom closet.

If it’s not guarded, stated Killer, it must be booby-trapped.

Ryoval’s main defenses will work from the outside in, said Lord Mark slowly. From the inside out, it will be set up to facilitate a quick escape. For Ryoval. And Ryoval alone.

It was palm-locked. Palm-lock pads read pulse, temperature, and the electrical conductivity of the skin, as well as the whorls of fingerprints and grooves of life-lines. Dead hands didn’t open palm-locks.

There are ways around palm locks, murmured Killer. Killer had been trained in such things once, in a previous incarnation. Lord Mark let go, and floated, watching.

The surgical array was almost as useful as an electronics kit, in Killer’s hands. Given abundant time, and as long as the palm lock was never going to be required to work again. Lord Mark gazed dreamily as Killer loosened the sensor-pad from the wall, touched here, cut there.

The control virtual on the wall lit at last. Ah, murmured Killer proudly.

Oh, said the rest. The display projected a small glowing square.

It wants a code-key, said Killer in dismay. His panic at being trapped quickened their heart rate. Howl’s tenuous containment loosened, and electrical twinges of pain coursed through them.

Wait, said Lord Mark. If they needed a code-key, so must Ryoval.

Baron Ryoval has no successor. Ryoval had no second-in-command, no trained replacement. He kept all his oppressed subordinates in separate channels of communication. House Ryoval consisted of Baron Ryoval, and slaves, period. That’s why House Ryoval failed to grow. Ryoval didn’t delegate authority, ever.

Therefore, Ryoval had no place nor trusted subordinates with whom to leave his private code-keys. He had to carry them on his person. At all times.

The black-gang whimpered as Lord Mark turned around and returned to the living room. Mark ignored them. This is my job, now.

He turned Ryoval’s body over on its back, and searched it methodically from head to toe, down to the skin and farther. He missed no possibility, not even hollow teeth. He sat back uncomfortably, distended belly aching, sprained back on fire. His level of pain was rising as he re-integrated, which made it a very tentative process. It has to be here. It has to be here somewhere.

Run, run, run, the black-gang gibbered, in a remarkably unified chorus.

Shut up and let me think. He turned Ryoval’s right hand over in his own. A ring with a flat black stone gleamed in the light… .

He laughed out loud.

He swallowed the laugh fearfully, looking around. The Baron’s soundproofing held, apparently. The ring would not slide off. Stuck? Riveted to the bone? He cut off Ryoval’s right hand with the laser drill. The laser also cauterized the wrist, so it wasn’t too drippy. Nice. He limped slowly and painfully back to the bedroom closet, and stared at the little glowing square, just the size of the ring’s stone.

Which way up? Would the wrong rotation trigger an alarm?

Lord Mark pantomimed Baron Ryoval in a hurry. Slap the palm lock, turn his hand over and jam the ring into the code slot—”This way,” he whispered.

The door slid open on a personal lift tube. It extended upward some twenty meters. Its antigrav control pads glowed, green for up, red for down. Lord Mark and Killer gazed around. No obvious defenses, such as a tanglefield generator… .

A faint draft brought a scent of fresh air from above. Let’s go! screamed Gorge and Grunt and Howl.

Lord Mark stood spraddle-legged and stodgy, staring, refusing to be rushed. It has no safety ladder, he said at last.

So what?

So. What?

Killer sagged back, and muffled the rest of them, and waited respectfully.

I want a safety ladder, muttered Lord Mark querulously. He turned away, and wandered back through Ryoval’s quarters. While he was at it, he looked for clothes. There wasn’t much to choose from; this clearly was not Ryoval’s main residence. Just a private suite. The garments were all too long and not wide enough. The trousers were impossible. A soft knit shirt stretched over his raw skin, though. A loose jacket, left open, provided some more protection. A Betan-style sarong, bath-wear, wrapped his loins. A pair of slippers were sloppy on his left foot, tight on his swollen, broken right foot. He searched for cash, keys, anything else of use. But there was no handy climbing gear.

I’ll just have to make my own safety ladder. He hung the laser drill around his neck on a tie made from a couple of Ryoval’s belts, stepped into the bottom of the lift tube, and systematically began to burn holes in the plastic side.

Too slow! the black gang wailed. Howl howled inside, and even Killer screamed, Run, dammit!

Lord Mark ignored them. He turned on the “up” field, but did not let it take them. Clinging to his hot hand and foot holds, he pocked his way upward. It was not difficult to climb, buoyed in the flowing grav field, only hard to remember to keep his three points of contact. His right foot was nearly useless. The black gang gibbered in fear. Mulish and methodical, Mark ascended. Melt a hole. Wait. Move a hand, foot, hand, foot. Melt another hole. Wait… .

Three meters from the top, his head came level with a small audio pick-up, flush to the wall, and a shielded motion sensor.

I imagine it wants a code word. In Ryoval’s voice, Lord Mark remarked blandly, observing. Can’t oblige.

It doesn’t have to be what you guess, Killer said. It could be anything. Plasma arcs. Poison gas.

No. Ryoval saw me, but I saw Ryoval. It will be simple. And elegant. And you will do it to yourself. Watch.

He gripped his handhold, and extended the laser drill up past the motion sensor for the next burn.

The lift tube’s grav field switched off.

Even half-expecting it, he was nearly ripped from his perch by his own weight. Howl could not contain it all. Mark screamed silently, flooded in pain. But he clung, and did not let them fall.

The last three meters of ascent could have been called a nightmare, but he had new standards for nightmares now. It was merely tedious.

There was a tanglefield trap at the top entrance, but it faced outward. The laser drill disarmed its controls. He managed a crippled, shuffling, crabwise walk into a private underground garage. It contained the Baron’s lightflyer. The canopy opened at the touch of Ryoval’s ring.

He slid into the lightflyer, adjusted the seat and controls as best he could around his distorted and aching contours, powered it up, eased it forward. That button on the control panel—there? The garage door slid aside. Once through, he shot up, and up, and up, through the dark, the acceleration pummeling him. Nobody even fired on him. There were no lights below. A rocky winter waste. The whole little installation must be underground.

He checked the flyer’s map display, and picked his direction— East. Toward the light. That seemed right.

He kept accelerating.