The young man’s face jerked back in bewildered offense. “Are you talking to me, Short Circuit?”

“He’s talking!” His Dr. Durona’s face circled overhead, her voice thrilled. He recognized her even with her fine hair loose, falling all around her face in a dark cloud. Rowan, my love. “Raven, what did he say?”

The youth’s dark brows wrinkled. “I’d swear he just said ’fire safety.’ Gibberish, I guess.”

Rowan smiled wildly. “Raven, all the secured doors open outward without code-locks. For escape in case of fire or chemical accident or—do you realize the level of understanding that reveals?”

“No,” said Raven coldly.

That dolt must have stung, considering its source … he grinned darkly up at the hovering faces and the lobby ceiling wavering beyond them.

An older, alto voice came in from the left, restoring order, disbanding the crowd. “If you don’t have a function here, get back to bed.” A Dr. Durona whose short-cut hair was almost pure white, the owner of the alto voice, shuffled into his field of view, and stared thoughtfully down at him. “Dear heart, Rowan, he almost escaped, disabled as he is!”

“Hardly an escape,” said Brother Raven. “Even if he’d somehow gotten through the force screen, he’d have frozen to death in twenty minutes out there tonight, dressed like that.”

“How did he get out?”

An upset Dr. Durona confessed, “He must have gone past the monitor station while I was in the lav. I’m sorry!”

“Suppose he had made it this far in the daytime?” speculated the alto. “Suppose he had been seen? It could have been disastrous.”

“I’ll palm-lock the door to the private wing after this,” the flustered Dr. Durona promised.

“I’m not sure that will be enough, considering this remarkable performance. Yesterday he couldn’t even walk. Still, this fills me with hope as much as alarm. I think we have something here. We had better set a closer guard.”

“Who can be spared?” asked Rowan.

Several Dr. Duronas, clad variously in robes and nightgowns, looked at the young man.

“Aw, no,” Raven protested.

“Rowan may watch him in the daytime, and continue her work. You will take the night shift,” the white-haired woman instructed firmly.

“Yes, ma’am,” the youth sighed.

She gestured imperiously. “Take him back to his room now. You had better check him for damages, Rowan.”

“I’ll get a float pallet,” said Rowan.

“You don’t need a float pallet for him,” scoffed Raven. He knelt, gathered the wanderer up in his arms, and grunted to his feet.

Showing off his strength? Well … no. “He weighs about as much as a wet coat. Come on, Short Circuit, back to bed with you.”

Muzzily indignant, he suffered himself to be carried off. Rowan hovered apprehensively at his side across the lobby, down the tube, through the storage chamber, and back into the peculiar building-under-a-building. At least, in response to his continued shivering, she set the bed’s heat-bubble zone to a higher temperature this time.

Rowan examined him, with particular attention to his aching scars. “He hasn’t managed to rip anything apart inside. But he seems physiologically upset. It may be from the pain.”

“Do you want me to give him another two cc’s of sedative?” asked Raven.

“No. Just keep the room dim and quiet. He’s exhausted himself. Once he warms up I think he’ll sleep on his own.” She touched his cheek, then his lips, tenderly. “That was the second time today that he spoke, do you know?”

She wanted him to speak to her. But he was too tired now. And too rattled. There had been a tension among those people tonight, all those Dr. Duronas, that was more than medical fear for a patient’s safety. They were very worried about something. Something to do with him? He might be a blank to himself, but they knew more and they weren’t telling him.

Rowan eventually pulled her night robe more closely about herself, and left. Raven arranged two chairs, one for a seat and one for his feet, settled down, and began reading from a hand-viewer. Studying, for he occasionally re-ran screens or made notes. Learning to be a doctor, no doubt.

He lay back, drained beyond measure. His excursion tonight had nearly killed him, and what had he learned for all his pains? Not much, except this: I am come to a very strange place.

And I am a prisoner here.

Mark, Bothari-Jesek, and the Countess were in the library of Vorkosigan House going over ship specs the day before the scheduled departure.

“Do you think I would have time to stop and see my clones on Komarr?” Mark asked the Countess a little wistfully. “Would Illyan let me?”

ImpSec had settled on a Komarran private boarding school as the clones’ initial depository, after consultation with the Countess, who had in turn kept Mark informed. ImpSec liked it because it meant they had only one location to guard. The clones liked it because they were together with their friends, the only familiarity in their sudden new situation. The teachers liked it because the clones could all be treated as one remedial class, and brought up to academic speed together. At the same time the young refugees had a chance to mingle with youths from normal, if mostly upper-class, families, and begin to get a handle on socialization. Later, when it was safer, the Countess was pushing for placement in foster-families despite the clones’ awkward age and size. How will they learn to form families themselves, later, if they have no models? she’d argued with Illyan. Mark had listened in on that conversation with the most intense imaginable fascination, and kept his mouth tightly shut.

“Certainly, if you wish,” the Countess now said to Mark. “Illyan will kick, but that’s pure reflex. Except … I can think of one proper complaint he might have, because of your destination. If you encounter House Bharaputra again, God forbid, it might be better if you don’t know everything about ImpSec’s arrangements. Stopping on your way back might be more prudent.” The Countess looked as if she didn’t care for the flavor of her own words, but years of living with security concerns made her reasoning automatic.

If I encounter Vasa Luigi again, the clones will be the least of my worries, Mark thought wryly. What did he want of a personal visit anyway? Was he still trying to pass himself off as a hero? A hero should be more self-contained and austere. Not so desperate for praise as to pursue his—victims—begging for it. Surely he’d played the fool enough. “No,” he sighed at last. “If any of them ever want to talk to me, they can find me, I guess.” No heroine was going to kiss him anyway.

The Countess raised her brows at his tone, but shrugged agreement.

Led by Bothari-Jesek, they turned to more practical matters involving fuel costs and life-support system repairs. Bothari-Jesek and the Countess—who, Mark was reminded, had been a ship captain herself once—were deep into a startlingly technical discussion involving Necklin rod adjustments, when the comconsole image split, and Simon Illyan’s face appeared.

“Hello, Elena.” He nodded to her, in the comconsole’s station chair. “I wish to speak with Cordelia, please.”

Bothari-Jesek smiled, nodded, muted the outgoing audio, and slid aside. She beckoned urgently to the Countess, whispering, “Do we have trouble?”

“He’s going to block us,” worried Mark, agitated, as the Countess settled into the comconsole’s station chair. “He’s going to nail me to the floor, I know he is.”

“Hush,” reproved the Countess, smiling slightly. “Both of you sit over there and resist the temptation to talk. Simon is my meat.” She re-opened her audio transmission mode. “Yes, Simon, what can I do for you?”

“Milady,” Illyan gave her a short nod, “in a word, you can desist. This scheme you are putting forward is unacceptable.”