The re-discovery of sex fairly immobilized him for the next three days, but his instinct for escape surfaced one afternoon when Rowan left him sleeping, but he wasn’t. He unlidded his eyes, and traced the pattern of scars on his chest, and thought it over. Out was clearly a wrong direction. In was one he hadn’t tried yet. Everybody here seemed to go to Lilly with their problems. Very well. He would go to Lilly too.

Up, or down? As a Jacksonian leader, she ought traditionally to lodge in either a penthouse or a bunker. Baron Ryoval lived in a bunker, or at least there was a dim image in his head associated with that name, involving shadowy sub-basements. Baron Fell took the penthouse at apogee, looking down on it all from his orbital station. He seemed to have a lot of pictures in his head of Jackson’s Whole. Was it his home? The thought confused him. Up. Up and in.

He dressed in his grey knits, borrowed some of Rowan’s socks, and slipped into the corridor. He found a lift tube and took it to the top floor, just one above Rowan’s. It was another floor of residence suites. At its center he found another lift tube, palm-locked. Any Durona could use it. A spiral staircase wound around it. He climbed the stairs very slowly, and waited, near the top, till he had all his breath back. He knocked on the door.

It slid aside, and a slim Eurasian boy of about ten regarded him gravely. “What do you want?” The boy frowned.

“I want to see your … grandmother.”

“Bring him in, Robin,” a soft voice called.

The boy ducked his head, and motioned him inside. His sock feet trod noiselessly across a deep carpet. The windows were polarized against the dark grey afternoon, and pools of warmer, yellower lamplight fought the gloom. Beyond the window, the force field revealed itself with tiny scintillations, as water droplets or particulars matter were detected and repelled or annihilated.

A shrunken woman sat in a wide chair, and watched him approach her through dark eyes set in a face of old ivory. She wore a high-necked black silk tunic and loose trousers. Her hair was pure white, and very long; a slim girl, most literally twin to the boy, was brushing it over the back of the chair, in long, long strokes. The room was very warm. Regarding her regarding him, he wondered how he could ever have thought that worried old woman with the cane might be Lilly. Hundred-year-old eyes looked at you differently.

“Ma’am,” he said. His mouth felt suddenly dry.

“Sit down,” she nodded to a short sofa set around the corner of the low table in front of her. “Violet, dear,” a thin hand, all white wrinkles and blue ropy veins, touched the girl’s hand which had paused protectively on her black silk shoulder. “Bring tea now. Three cups. Robin, please go downstairs and get Rowan.”

The girl arranged the hair in a falling fan around the woman’s upright torso, and the two children vanished in un-childlike silence. Clearly, the Durona Group did not employ outsiders. No chance of a mole ever penetrating their organization. With equal obedience, he sank into the seat she’d indicated.

Her vowels had a vibrato of age, but her diction, containing them, was perfect. “Have you come to yourself, sir?” she inquired.

“No, ma’am,” he said sadly. “Only to you.” He thought carefully about how to phrase his question. Lilly would not be any less medically careful than Rowan about yielding him clues. “Why can’t you identify me?”

Her white brows rose. “Well put. You are ready for an answer, I think. Ah.”

The lift tube hummed, and Rowan’s alarmed face appeared. She hurried out. “Lilly, I’m sorry. I thought he was asleep—”

“It’s all right, child. Sit down. Pour the tea,” for Violet reappeared around the corner bearing a large tray. Lilly whispered to the girl behind a faintly trembling hand, and she nodded and scampered off. Rowan knelt in what appeared to be a precise old ritual—had she once held Violet’s place? he rather thought so—and poured green tea into thin white cups, and handed it round. She sat at Lilly’s knees, and stole a brief, reassuring touch of the white hair coiled there.

The tea was very hot. Since he’d lately taken a deep dislike to cold, this pleased him, and he sipped carefully. “Answers, ma’am?” he reminded her cautiously.

Rowan’s lips parted in a negative, alarmed breath; Lilly crooked up one finger, and quelled her.

“Background,” said the old woman. “I believe the time has come to tell you a story.”

He nodded, and settled back with his tea.

“Once upon a time,” she smiled briefly, “there were three brothers. A proper fairy tale, ai? The eldest and original, and two young clones. The eldest—as happens in these tales—was born to a magnificent patrimony. Title—wealth—comfort—his father, if not exactly a king, commanded more power than any king in pre-Jump history. And thus he became the target of many enemies. Since he was known to dote upon his son, it occurred to more than one of his enemies to try and strike at him through his only child. Hence this peculiar multiplication.” She nodded at him. It made his belly shiver. He sipped more tea, to cover his confusion.

She paused. “Can you name any names yet?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Mm.” She abandoned the fairy tale; her voice grew more clipped. “Lord Miles Vorkosigan of Barrayar was the original. He is now about twenty-eight standard years old. His first clone was made right here on Jackson’s Whole, twenty-two years ago, a purchase by a Komarran resistance group from House Bharaputra. We do not know what this clone names himself, but the Komarrans’ elaborate substitution plot failed about two years ago, and the clone escaped.”

“Galen,” he whispered.

She glanced sharply at him. “He was the chief of those Komarrans, yes. The second clone … is a puzzle. The best guess is that he was manufactured by the Cetagandans, but no one knows. He first appeared about ten years ago as a full-blown and exceptionally brilliant mercenary commander, claiming the quite legal Betan name of Miles Naismith, in his maternal line. He has shown himself no friend to the Cetagandans, so the theory that he is a Cetagandan renegade has a certain compelling logic. No one knows his age, though obviously he can be no more than twenty-eight.” She took a sip of her tea. “It is our belief that you are one of those two clones.”

“Shipped to you like a crate of frozen meat? With my chest blown out?”

“Yes.”

“So what? Clones—even frozen ones—can’t be a novelty here.” He glanced at Rowan.

“Let me go on. About three months ago, Bharaputra’s manufactured clone returned home—with a crew of mercenary soldiers at his back that he had apparently stolen from the Dendarii Fleet by the simple expedient of pretending to be his clone-twin, Admiral Naismith. He attacked Bharaputra’s clone-creche in an attempt to either steal, or possibly free, a group of clones slated to be the bodies for brain transplants, a business which I personally loathe.”

He touched his chest. “He … failed?”

“No. But Admiral Naismith followed in hot pursuit of his stolen hip and troops. In the melee that ensued downside at Bharaputra’s main surgical facilities, one of the two was killed. The other escaped, along with the mercenaries and most of Bharaputra’s very valuable clone-cattle. They made a fool of Vasa Luigi—I laughed myself sick when I first heard about it.” She sipped tea demurely.

He could actually almost picture her doing so, though it made his eyes cross slightly.

“Before they jumped, the Dendarii Mercenaries posted a reward for the return of a cryo-chamber containing the remains of a man they claim to have been the Bharaputran-made clone.”

His eyes widened. “Me?”

She held up a hand. “Vasa Luigi, Baron Bharaputra, is absolutely convinced that they were lying, and that the man in the box was really their Admiral Naismith.”